m 


CONFIDENT 


RfflC?! 


(fctlji 

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BY 

BRANDER 

MATTHEWS 


"SO    ABSOKBKl)    WAS    UK    IN    TIIKSE    THOUGHTS" 


A  Confident  To-Morrow 


IHovel  of  Tftew  I?orfc 


BRANDER    MATTHEWS 

AUTHOR  OF 

'VIGNETTES  OK  MANHATTAN"  "HIS  FATHER'S  SON' 
"OUTLINES  IN  LOCAL  COLOR"  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED 
BY   WILLIAM   L.  JACOBS 


NEW   YORK   AND   LONDON 

HARPER     &     BROTHERS     PUBLISHERS 
IQOO 


cC 


BY   BRANDBR  MATTHEWS. 


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All  riyhtt  reierttd. 


THIS   STORY  OF   A   GREAT  CITY 

Is  •ffnscribeD  to 

A   GOOD   CITIZEN 

RICHARD    WATSON    GILDER 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


'  SO  ABSORBED  WAS  HE  IN   THESE   THOUGHTS  "      .     Frontispiece 
'  THE     PANORAMA      OF      NEW     YORK      UNROLLED 

ITSELF" Facing  p.  2 

'  IN  THE  PRESENCE  OF  THE  ONE  WOMAN  "...         "  72 

'  THE  HEAD  -  WAITER  BROUGHT  THEM  A  BOTTLE 

OF  CLARET" "         142 

'  THEY    HAD    THE    ARCHWAY    ALL    TO    THEM 
SELVES  " "          290 


A  CONFIDENT  TO-MORROW 


CHAPTER   I 

at  last  the  train  stood  still,  and  the  impa 
tient  passengers  poured  forth  and  pressed  forward  as 
though  a  prize  had  been  offered  to  the  one  who  should 
first  reach  the  ferry-boat,  Frank  Sartain  found  himself 
hastening  ahead  as  eagerly  as  any  of  the  others.  He 
was  glad  of  a  chance  to  stretch  his  legs  again,  for  he 
was  weary  with  the  two  nights  spent  on  the  cars,  and 
with  the  long  intervening  day.  He  felt  draggled  and 
dirty  from  his  journey  ;  and  as  the  procession  of  pas 
sengers  came  out  into  the  open  air,  he  drew  a  long 
breath,  as  though  to  cleanse  his  lungs.  A  breeze  blew 
in  from  the  river,  damp  but  not  chill,  considering  the 
time  of  the  year.  Sartain  wondered  if  it  were  always 
as  mild  as  this  in  New  York  in  the  middle  of  October. 
He  had  not  been  East  for  several  years ;  and  even 
at  best  his  acquaintance  with  the  great  city  was  con 
fined  to  two  or  three  chance  visits  when  the  college 
glee  club  had  come  down  to  give  its  annual  concert. 
And  now  he  was  entering  New  York  to  stay ;  it  was 
in  New  York  hereafter  that  he  was  to  wage  the  battle 
of  life,  and  to  fight  his  way  to  the  front.  He  looked 


2  A   CONFIDENT  TO-MOEBOW 

at  the  men  who  were  hurrying  along  briskly  by  his 
side ;  and  he  wondered  whether  he  should  ever  see 
one  of  them  again,  and  Avhether  any  of  them  would  be 
competitors  of  his  at  some  future  day. 

Although  stairways  led  to  the  ground-floor  of  the 
ferry-house,  the  main  stream  of  passengers  swept  along 
on  the  upper  platform,  which  communicated  with  each 
of  the  ferry-slips.  As  a  newspaper-man  Sartain  had 
kept  up  with  the  changes  and  improvements  of  New 
York,  and  though  he  had  never  seen  a  two-story  fer 
ry-boat,  he  was  not  surprised  when  he  beheld  little 
drawbridges  lowered  at  the  ends  of  the  platform  on 
which  he  and  his  fellow  -  travellers  were  massed,  so 
that  they  could  cross  directly  to  the  upper  deck  of 
the  boat. 

There  the  panorama  of  New  York  unrolled  itself 
before  the  young  man's  questioning  eyes.  He  drew  a 
long  breath  again;  and  unconsciously  he  set  his  teeth 
with  determination.  He  knew  that  the  promised  land 
lay  before  him  ;  and  that  whether  he  should  ever  pos 
sess  it  or  not  depended  upon  his  own  strength  and  his 
own  courage.  He  felt  himself  girded  for  the  combat, 
and  he  was  eager  for  the  onset.  He  likened  himself 
to  Eugene  de  Rastignac,  gazing  bitterly  down  on  Paris 
the  afternoon  of  old  Groriot's  funeral,  and  then  going 
to  dine  with  the  dead  man's  daughter ;  and  he  wist 
fully  wondered  if  he  were  ever  to  meet  with  contrasts 
as  dramatic  in  New  York  as  Rastignac  in  Paris. 

The  rain,  after  racing  with  the  train  across  the  Alle- 
ghanies  the  day  before,  had  reached  the  Hudson  first, 
and  had  spent  itself  before  Frank  Sartain  arrived  in 
sight  of  the  river.  The  sky  overhead  was  now  flecked 
with  scattered  clouds ;  and  the  stern  and  serrated 


A    CONFIDENT    TO-MOKKOW  3 

profile  of  New  York  stood  out  against  a  gray  bank  low 
on  the  horizon. 

As  the  ferry-boat  started  on  its  brief  voyage  across 
the  river,  the  sun  came  out  hesitatingly  and  shone  in 
the  young  man's  eyes.     He  turned  to  the  right  and 
beheld  the  stalwart  figure  of  Liberty  rising  from  the 
broad  waters  of  the  bay.     As  far  as  he  could  see,  craft 
were  in  motion ;  sloops  were  slipping  up  the  river  with 
the  wind  and  the  tide   in  their  favor  ;  spiteful  tugs 
were  spitting  steam  as  they  darted  in  every  direction  ; 
ferry-boats   of  all   colors   were  crossing  each  other's 
tracks    incessantly ;    huge    floats   loaded    down    with 
freight-cars  were  sliding  slowly  from  the  Jersey  shore 
to  the  Long  Island  ;  through  all  this  seeming   con 
fusion   an   immense   ocean -steamer  was   majestically 
threading  its  way  to  its  pier  a  mile  farther  up  the 
stream.     As  he  looked  at  these  vessels  of  one  sort  or 
another,  all  steadily  at  their  regular  work  and  all  serv 
ing  the  city  that  lay  spread  out  before  him  in  its 
sullen  might,  Sartain  was  seized  with  a  sudden  sense 
of  the  immense  power  of  New  York.     Hopeful  as  he 
was  by  temperament  and  by  force  of  youth  and  health 
and  energy,  there  went  over  him  a  momentary  thrill 
of  doubt  and  loneliness.     Who  was  he  that  he  should 
dare  to  go  down  into  that  arena,  to  fight  his  way  to 
the  front  all  alone  ? 

He  was  a  sturdy  young  fellow  as  he  stood  there  in 
the  front  of  the  ferry-boat,  pulling  at  the  point  of  his 
brown  beard.  His  eyes  were  brown  also,  and  gentle 
and  even  appealing.  But  the  eyebrows  were  resolute 
and  straight,  and  the  chin  was  firm ;  and  so  was  the 
mouth  hidden  by  the  drooping  brown  mustache.  His 
face  was  thin,  and  his  complexion  sallow,  although 


4  A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW 

this  may  have  been  due  to  his  two  nights  in  the  cars. 
He  wore  a  loose  suit  of  clothes  that  did  not  fit  him ; 
and  although  not  old,  the  trousers  were  already  a  little 
baggy  at  the  knees. 

Then  he  straightened  himself  up,  and  his  glance 
swept  the  length  of  the  city  that  lay  before  him.  The 
glare  of  the  sun  was  gilding  the  water  that  washed  the 
foot  of  the  Battery ;  and  behind  the  massive  profile  of 
New  York  the  bank  of  leaden  cloud  was  already  lighter 
than  it  had  been  when  the  ferry-boat  started.  As  he 
looked  and  noted  how  one  tall  building  lifted  its  slim 
shaft  in  air,  and  how  another  had  heaved  its  huge  bulk 
upward,  while  yet  a  third  spread  aloft  the  spider's-web 
of  its  incompleted  steel  framework,  he  thought  that  it 
would  not  greatly  task  the  imagination  to  liken  New 
York  to  a  walled  city  with  towering  forts  and  broad 
citadels  thrust  up  squarely,  and  with  an  arm  of  the 
salt  sea  for  its  moat.  He  wondered  again  how  he 
should  fare  within  its  gates,  and  how  long  it  would 
take  him  to  win  his  spurs  in  its  tilt-yard.  Whatever 
the  result  of  the  tourney,  he  was  going  forward  boldly 
and  blithely,  and  with  no  glance  backward. 

He  recalled  Arthur  Pendennis  rolling  up  to  London 
on  the  top  of  a  coach,  a  proper  enough  mode  of  entry 
for  the  future  author  of  the  romance  of  Walter  Lor 
raine,  but  far  too  old-fashioned  for  a  veritist  like  Sar- 
tain,  who  had  in  his  trunk  the  manuscript  of  a  realistic 
novel,  Dust  and  Ashes. 

When  the  ferry-boat  entered  the  slip  on  the  New 
York  side,  the  passengers  revealed  the  same  impatience 
to  get  off  that  they  had  shown  to  get  on  a  few  minutes 
earlier.  Sartain  looked  at  the  men  and  women  about 
him,  and  he  could  see  no  reason  why  they  should  all 


A   CONFIDENT   TO-MOKEOW  5 

hurry  thus.  It  was  then  about  half-past  nine,  and 
there  were  few  laboring  people  or  factory  hands  on  the 
boat ;  for  such  as  these  the  hour  was  too  late.  The 
men  were  apparently  lawyers  or  bank  clerks  or  the 
like,  not  compelled  to  be  at  their  offices  before  ten 
o'clock.  The  women  were  well  dressed,  so  it  seemed 
to  Sartain — far  better  dressed  than  the  women  were 
whom  he  had  left  behind  him  in  Topeka ;  and,  while 
some  of  them  may  have  been  on  their  way  to  their 
desks,  the  most  of  them  struck  him  as  coming  to  the 
city  merely  to  shop  or  to  visit,  or  perhaps — as  it  was 
Saturday — to  go  to  the  theatre  in  the  afternoon.  Yet 
they  were  all  rushing  ahead,  as  though  every  minute 
had  to  be  paid  for  separately.  Impatiently  they  pressed 
through  the  ferry-house,  crossing  the  street  on  a  long 
covered  bridge,  and  descending  at  last  to  the  sidewalk 
by  a  twisting  stairway  inside  the  house  on  the  corner. 

When  Sartain  came  out  on  the  street  below  and  saw 
how  dirty  it  was,  and  how  slippery  with  mud,  his 
opinion  of  the  city  fell.  The  needless  ugliness  of  the 
surroundings,  the  sordid  grimness  of  the  water-front 
generally,  the  shabbiness  in  particular  of  the  stands 
that  backed  up  against  some  of  the  buildings,  all  de 
tracted  not  a  little  from  the  impression  of  dignified 
strength  which  New  York  had  made  upon  him  when 
seen  from  afar. 

Nobody  else  seemed  to  remark  upon  the  meanness  of 
the  thoroughfare  —  perhaps  because  nobody  cared  to 
give  it  any  attention.  Everybody  pushed  forward,  up 
the  street  towards  Broadway,  stumbling  on  sticky  side 
walks  which  were  crowded  with  projecting  show-cases 
and  with  obtrusive  fruit-stands.  By  a  resolute  effort 
Sartain  slackened  his  pace.  There  was  no  need  that 


6  A   CONFIDENT   TO-MOKKOW 

he  should  hurry.  He  thought  to  let  the  other  passen 
gers  by  his  boat  get  ahead  of  him,  so  that  he  should 
not  be  urged  forward  in  this  frantic  fashion,  so  he  loi 
tered  by  a  window  in  which  a  man  in  white  coat  and 
cap  was  baking  buckwheat-cakes  over  a  gas  griddle. 
But  though  he  lingered  there  five  minutes,  and  then 
wasted  two  or  three  more  gazing  into  a  florist's  door 
way  at  the  potted  chrysanthemums  and  at  the  bulbs 
sprouting  in  damp  gravel,  there  was  no  slackening  in 
the  flood  of  passers-by.  Soon  he  recognized  the  folly 
of  his  attempt,  realizing  that  the  stream  of  humanity 
flows  ceaselessly  through  the  streets  of  the  great  city, 
and  that  the  crowds  which  pour  in  every  morning,  by 
ferry,  by  rail,  and  on  foot,  lose  themselves  immediately 
in  the  immense  current  of  the  metropolis. 

Then  he  went  up  the  street  towards  Broadway,  and 
under  one  darkening  elevated-railroad  track,  and  then 
under  another ;  the  sun  beamed  forth  again,  and  the 
sky  above  was  blue ;  and  he  quickened  his  gait  and 
walked  as  swiftly  as  any  of  the  New  Yorkers  who  jos 
tled  along  by  his  side.  The  noise  of  the  city  rose  all 
about  him  like  the  call  of  some  strange  beast,  hungry 
and  insatiable,  and  insisting  upon  its  human  sacrifice 
night  and  morning.  It  was  not  a  shrill  cry,  nor  a 
petulant ;  it  was  a  deep,  reverberating  roar,  appalling 
when  its  significance  was  seized.  ,  Yet  nobody  noticed 
it  except  Sartain,  as  he  stood  at  the  corner  of  Broad 
way  and  looked  up  and  down.  In  his  ears  it  rang  so 
loud  that  it  almost  forced  him  to  raise  his  hands  and 
try  vainly  to  shut  it  out.  Then  he  straightened  him 
self  again — he  was  doing  his  best  to  break  off  a  habit 
of  stooping;  he  drew  a  long  breath  once  more,  and 
resolutely  set  aside  such  idle  fancies.  For  a  deter- 


A   CONFIDENT  TO-MOBBOW  7 

mined  realist,  as  he  knew  himself  to  be,  it  was  a  vain 
imagination,  and  most  misleading,  to  liken  a  modern 
city  of  America  to  an  unknown  monster  of  mythology. 

The  boarding-house  where  he  had  engaged  a  hall 
bedroom  was  in  Irving  Place,  only  a  couple  of  blocks 
from  Broadway.  It  was  one  of  the  brown-stone,  high- 
stoop,  four -story  houses  which  make  the  middle  of 
New  York  stupidly  monotonous.  Sartain  had  to  ring 
the  door-bell  three  times  before  any  one  came  to  let 
him  in. 

At  last  the  door  was  opened  by  a  red-faced,  middle- 
aged  Irish  woman,  who  told  him  that  the  landlady  had 
gone  out  to  do  her  marketing  for  Sunday,  but  that  his 
room  was  all  ready  for  him.  Then  she  walked  wearily 
up-stairs  before  him.  A  pungent  odor  of  boiled  cab 
bage  went  up  with  them  also. 

He  was  shown  into  the  front  hall  bedroom  on  the 
third  floor — the  little  room  that  was  to  be  his  home 
for  a  year  or  more.  Although  bare  and  untidy,  it 
was  fairly  clean;  and  there  was  a  bath-room  on  the 
same  landing.  When  the  rheumatic  attendant  had 
limped  down  to  her  kitchen  again,  he  looked  about 
him  and  mentally  fitted  his  belongings  into  the  con 
fined  space.  He  was  glad  to  see  that  there  was  a  little 
table  in  the  window,  at  which  he  could  write ;  and  the 
gas-jet  was  near  to  it. 

Within  an  hour  the  expressman  brought  his  trunk. 
He  took  out  the  manuscript  of  Dust  and  Ashes,  reread 
two  or  three  of  the  chapters  lovingly  and  made  a  few 
corrections  in  pencil.  Then  he  unpacked  his  books 
and  his  writing  materials,  and  arranged  his  possessions 
as  best  he  could.  By  the  time  he  had  got  everything 


8  A   CONFIDENT  TO-MORROW 

settled  it  was  one  o'clock,  and  a  bell  down  below  rang 
for  luncheon. 

As  he  went  down-stairs  he  thought  of  the  Maison 
Vauquier,  and  wondered  whether  he  should  have  a 
Vautrin  for  a  fellow-boarder.  Admirer  of  Balzac  as 
he  was,  he  could  not  but  admit  that  a  convict  in  dis 
guise  was  not  a  probable  inmate  of  any  boarding- 
house  ;  and  it  struck  him  more  forcibly  than  ever  be 
fore  that  not  a  little  romanticism  sometimes  colored 
the  great  Parisian  novelist's  realism. 

The  dining-room  was  in  the  front  basement,  a  little 
below  the  level  of  the  sidewalk.  Down  the  centre 
there  was  one  long  table  with  ten  or  a  dozen  places, 
and  in  each  of  the  two  windows  were  little  round 
tables  with  three  chairs.  He  found  that  his  seat  was 
at  the  main  table,  opposite  a  mature  and  yellow-haired 
lady  who  gave  lessons  in  elocution,  and  between  a 
portly  old  gentleman  who  looked  as  though  he  might 
be  president  of  a  bank  and  a  pert  young  man  in  a 
bicycle  suit.  To  these  neighbors  the  landlady,  a  lank 
and  washed-out  widow,  introduced  him;  and  before 
he  had  eaten  his  helping  of  the  corn-beef  and  cabbage 
which  constituted  the  luncheon  they  had  become  very 
friendly,  had  told  him  much  about  themselves,  and 
had  asked  him  many  leading  questions  about  himself. 
They  also  gave  him  abundant  information  about  the 
other  boarders,  few  of  whom,  it  appeared,  were  ever  at 
home  for  lunch. 

"You've  come  to  the  right  house  if  you  want  So 
ciety.  Hasn't  he,  Mrs.  Greer  ?"  said  the  bicycle 
young  man,  appealing  to  the  landlady.  "  Why,  there 
ain't  a  Sunday  in  the  month  scarcely  when  you  won't 
see  Miss  De  Lancey's  name  in  the  '  Gossip  of  the  Gay 


A   CONFIDENT  TO-MORKOW  9 

World ' ;  and  Mr.  Wornum,  here,  he  had  a  very  respon 
sible  position  down  in  Wall  Street — and  he'd  be  there 
now,  only  the  firm  busted  last  spring.  And  as  for  me — 
well,  if  you  want  to  see  life,  what  1  can't  show  you  in 
this  old  town  ain't  worth  looking  at,  that's  all !  And 
it  ain't  a  song-and-dance  I'm  giving  you  either." 

When  the  new-comer  rose  from  the  table  the  bicycle 
young  man  hastily  rolled  his  napkin,  thrust  it  into  a 
bone  ring,  and  followed  Sartain  into  the  hall. 

"  Say,"  he  began,  lowering  his  voice,  "  I'll  give  you 
a  steer.  Don't  let  old  Wornum  touch  you." 

"  Touch  me  !"  repeated  Sartain,  a  little  doubtfully. 

"  That's  what  I  say.  Don't  let  him  touch  you  for  a 
dollar.  Last  summer  there  was  a  young  fellow  from 
Frisco  had  the  room  you  are  in,  and  before  he'd  been 
here  a  week  old  Wornum  had  pulled  his  leg  for  ten. 
That's  why  I'm  giviii'  you  a  pointer — see  ?"  and  the 
bicycle  young  man  laughed  pleasantly.  "  You  keep 
all  your  roll  in  your  own  pocket,  and  maybe  I'll  want 
to  borrow  some  of  it  myself  some  day  !" 

After  luncheon  Sartain  smoked  a  cigar  in  Union 
Square,  observing  the  procession  of  city  life  as  it  passed 
before  his  eyes.  A  little  before  three  o'clock  he  walked 
to  Fifth  Avenue  to  the  huge  building  where  were  the 
offices  of  Carington  &  Company,  the  publishers  for 
whom  he  was  to  go  to  work  on  Monday  morning.  He 
found  the  offices  on  the  tenth  floor,  but  they  were 
locked  ;  and  on  one  of  the  glass  doors,  which  bore  the 
name  of  the  firm,  a  card  announced:  "We  close  at 
Two,  Saturdays." 

When  Sartain  had  descended  again  to  the  avenue  he 
noticed  that  crowds  lined  the  sidewalk  as  if  in  expect 
ancy.  He  asked  a  policeman  the  reason  why,  and  was 


10  A    CONFIDENT   TO-MOKROW 

told  that  all  the  National  Guard  of  the  city  was  going 
to  parade  that  afternoon. 

It  was  a  beautiful  day,  after  a  night  of  rain,  and  the 
broad  avenue  was  brilliant  in  the  October  sunshine. 
Before  he  reached  Fortieth  Street  he  heard  the  martial 
rattle  of  the  drum.  When  the  cadet  gray  of  the  Sev 
enth  came  in  sight  and  was  recognized  by  the  crowd 
and  cheered,  Sartain's  pulse  beat  faster  and  his  heart 
throbbed  within  him.  He  recalled  Theodore  Win- 
throp's  account  of  the  way  that  regiment  had  marched 
down  Broadway  more  than  thirty  years  before  ;  and  he 
scanned  the  files  as  they  passed,  to  see  if  he  could  dis 
cover  a  man  old  enough  to  have  been  in  the  ranks 
then,  a  comrade  of  the  young  author  who  fell  before 
his  first  book  had  been  published.  Stirring  as  the 
warlike  spectacle  was,  to  Sartain  its  appeal  was  doubled 
by  his  recollection  that  the  earlier  march  of  the  Sev 
enth  had  its  adequate  record  in  literature. 

He  continued  his  walk  up  the  avenue.  He  was  go 
ing,  by  appointment,  to  call  upon  the  distinguished 
novelist,  Meredith  Vivian,  who  had  an  apartment  in 
one  of  the  immense  houses  which  faced  the  southern 
edge  of  the  Park. 

Sartain  was  a  loyal  admirer  of  Vivian's  writings  ;  he 
had  a  profound  reverence  for  that  novelist's  delicate 
art,  for  his  mastery  of  form,  for  his  sense  of  style,  and 
for  his  unfailing  ingenuity.  The  young  man  had  in 
his  pocket  his  letter  of  introduction  to  the  elder  crafts 
man,  and  he  knew  that  Mr.  Vivian  expected  him'  to 
call  that  afternoon  ;  and  yet,  now  that  the  hour  had 
come,  a  timidity  seized  him  and  the  shyness  returned 
that  he  hoped  he  had  conquered.  He  said  to  himself 
that  Mr.  Vivian  could  have  no  interest  whatever  in  a 


A   CONFIDENT  TO-MOBBOW  11 

young  man  who  had  been  engaged  for  a  few  years  on 
a  Kansas  newspaper,  even  if  the  young  man  had  been 
on  the  editorial  page,  writing  brevier,  the  last  six 
months. 

Thus  analyzing  his  feelings,  Sartain  walked  past  the 
broad  door  of  the  stately  apartment -house  in  which 
Mr.  Vivian  lived.  Then  he  turned  and  again  irreso 
lutely  went  beyond  the  entrance.  At  last  he  straight 
ened  himself,  drew  a  long  breath,  and  pushed  through 
the  yielding  glass  door. 

As  he  was  about  to  let  this  door  swing  back  he  be 
came  conscious  that  a  young  lady  was  behind  him,  and 
he  held  it  wide  open  for  her  to  pass.  She  acknowl 
edged  this  courtesy  with  an  inclination  of  the  head. 
She  was  slight  and  slim,  and  simply  dressed.  She 
wore  a  thick  veil,  so  that  he  could  not  see  her  face  in 
the  semi-obscurity  of  the  hall.  He  remarked  that  her 
walk  was  singularly  graceful. 

She  entered  the  elevator  just  before  him,  and  he 
thought  she  glanced  at  him  curiously  when  he  asked 
the  elevator-boy  on  Avhich  floor  Mr.  Vivian  lived. 

The  lad  stopped  the  elevator  at  the  sixth  landing, 
and  declared  that  Mr.  Vivian's  door  was  on  the  right. 

When  Sartain  had  pushed  the  electric  button,  he 
heard  the  elevator  gate  clang,  and  he  discovered  that 
the  young  lady  was  standing  by  his  side.  Then  it 
struck  him  that  perhaps  she  was  one  of  Vivian's 
daughters,  and  a  sudden  hope  sprang  up  within  him 
that  he  might  make  her  acquaintance,  possibly  that 
very  afternoon. 

The  door  was  opened  by  a  neat -looking  maid  in 
black,  with  a  white  apron  and  a  white  cap.  Wh_en 
she  saw  the  young  lady  standing  there,  she  smiled  and 


12  A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW 

said,  "  They  are  waiting  for  you,  Miss  Dircks ;  I've 
just  taken  in  the  tea-kettle/' 

Sartain  caught  himself  regretting  that  the  young 
lady  was  not  the  novelist's  daughter,  and  fearing  that 
now  perhaps  he  might  never  see  her  again. 

"  Waiting  for  me,  are  they  ?"  she  answered,  and 
the  low  notes  of  her  voice  charmed  the  young  man, 
who  was  listening  for  it.  "  But  I  am  on  time — it's 
only  a  quarter  to  four  now." 

With  that  she  disappeared  within  the  door ;  and  as 
Sartain's  eyes  followed  her  involuntarily  he  saw  that 
she  turned  to  the  right. 

The  maid  stood  waiting  for  him  to  speak. 

"  Mr.  Vivian  ?"  he  asked,  not  a  little  embarrassed, 
although  he  did  not  know  why. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  doubtfully.  "  What  name  shall  I 
say  ?" 

"Please  give  Mr.  Vivian  this  letter,"  Sartain  an 
swered,  "and  here  is  my  card." 

She  moved  back  so  as  to  allow  him  to  enter  the 
small  square  vestibule,  and  closed  the  door  behind  him. 
Taking  his  card  and  the  letter  on  a  small  salver,  she 
was  turning  to  go  when  her  eye  fell  on  three  or  four 
overcoats  hanging  on  a  hat-rack,  and  again  she  glanced 
back  and  looked  Sartain  over — very  suspiciously,  so  it 
seemed  to  the  young  man,  who  flushed.  Then  she  dis 
appeared  down  a  long  passage  to  the  left,  leaving  him 
standing  alone  in  the  vestibule. 

In  a  minute  sho  returned,  and  there  was  now  no 
trace  of  suspicion  in  her  manner. 

"Mr.  Vivian  will  see  you,"  she  said;  "this  way, 
please,"  and  she  preceded  him  down  the  long  and 
dimly  lighted  corridor. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  white -capped  maid  led  the  way  down  the 
gloomy  passage,  and  Sartain  followed  her  with  hesi 
tating  steps. 

Suddenly  she  stopped  and  opened  a  large  door  on 
the  left,  saying,  "This  is  Mr.  Vivian's  room." 

Sartain  paused,  blinking  in  the  glare  of  the  sunlight 
which  came  from  the  broad  bow-window  he  now  found 
himself  to  be  facing.  He  was  standing  on  the  thresh 
old  of  a  snug  and  cheerful  library,  ruddy  with  the 
rays  of  the  westering  sun.  A  blue  haze  of  smoke 
filled  the  room,  and  the  new-comer  was  conscious  at 
once  of  the  acrid  odor  of  Oriental  tobacco. 

With  the  features  of  Meredith  Vivian,  Sartain  sup 
posed  himself  to  be  familiar  from  the  frequent  por 
traits  printed  in  the  periodicals  ;  but  now  he  saw  that 
none  of  these  photographs  had  done  justice  to  the 
good  looks  of  the  great  novelist.  He  had  before  him 
a  handsome  man  of  perhaps  fifty,  well  preserved,  car 
rying  himself  easily,  with  a  good  figure,  and  so  care 
fully  dressed  as  to  suggest  to  Sartain  that  perhaps 
the  author  he  admired  might  be  a  bit  of  a  dandy. 
And  this  suggestion  added  not  a  little  to  the  embar 
rassment  the  young  writer  already  felt  in  the  presence 
of  his  elder. 

"  I  had  hoped  you  would  come  earlier,  Mr.  Sartain," 


14  A   CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW 

said  Vivian,  as  he  shook  hands  with  him  heartily. 
"We  have  had  half  a  dozen  authors  and  artists  here 
to  lunch  whom  you  might  have  liked  to  meet." 

"  Thank  you,"  Sartain  answered,  delighted  that  he 
was  at  last  actually  in  conversation  with  the  distin 
guished  man  whom  he  had  long  followed  from  afar. 
"  Thank  you,"  he  repeated,  as  he  twisted  the  end  of 
his  beard  a  little  nervously.  "  It  was  very  good  of  you 
to  be  willing  to  see  me  at  all.  You  must  have  so  many 
demands  on  your  time." 

"When  you  have  been  a  little  while  in  New  York," 
the  novelist  returned,  with  a  slight  laugh,  "you  will 
discover  that  busy  men  can  always  find  time,  and  that 
it  is  only  idle  men  who  never  have  any  leisure." 

"  Yes,"  said  Sartain,  thoughtfully,  as  he  turned  this 
paradox  over  in  his  mind,  "I  can  see  how  that  may 
be." 

"But  don't  let's  talk  any  more  about  that,"  the 
novelist  declared  cheerily;  "I  want  to  hear  about  you. 
Here,  take  that  chair,"  and  he  indicated  to  Sartain  a 
spacious  leather-covered  seat.  "Help  yourself  to  a 
cigar  or  a  cigarette  and  then  we  can  chat." 

While  they  were  making  ready  to  smoke  the  young 
man  had  a  chance  again  to  examine  the  elder.  AVhat 
struck  him  most  was  the  complete  concordance  be 
tween  the  man  who  actually  sat  before  him  and  the 
novelist  whose  works  he  had  read  with  pleasure  and 
whose  methods  he  had  studied  for  his  own  advantage. 
Even  the  square-cut  beard,  carefully  combed,  and  the 
accurately  parted  hair,  seemed  somehow  characteristic. 

"  Do  you  like  these  cigarettes  ?"  the  host  asked,  as 
he  dropped  his  wax  match  into  a  little  silver  ash-re 
ceiver  on  the  table  by  his  side.  "  If  you  would  rather 


A   CONFIDENT  TO-MORROW  15 

have  a  cigar,  now  ?"  And  he  indicated  a  box  at  his 
elbow. 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind,"  Sartain  answered,  awkwardly. 
"At  least — I  mean  —  this  suits  me  very  well,  thank 
you.  Indeed,  it  isn't  often  I  have  had  a  chance  to 
smoke  tobacco  as  delicate  as  this." 

"If  that's  all  right  then,"  said  Vivian,  cordially, 
"tell  me  about  yourself." 

"About  myself  ?"  echoed  Sartain. 

"Certainly," answered  the  elder  man,  smiling  whim 
sically;  "  we  all  like  to  talk  about  ourselves,  don't  we  ? 
I  know  I  do.  But  you  are  the  younger;  and  in  all 
consultations  the  young  men  give  their  opinions  first. 
Who  are  you  ?  Where  were  you  born  ?  What  educa 
tion  have  you  had  ?  What  have  you  done  ?  What  do 
you  want  to  do  ?" 

"  If  you  really  care  to  hear  about  me,"  Sartain  an 
swered  :  "  I  think  I  can  compact  my  biography  into  a 
very  few  sentences.  I  was  born  in  1868,  at  Wakefield  ; 
that's  a  little  town  in  Khode  Island  you  never  heard  of, 
I  suppose,  but  it's  only  three  miles  back  from  Narra- 
gansett  Pier." 

"  Then  I  have  driven  through  it,"  said  Vivian.  "It's 
a  pretty  place,  as  I  remember  it,  and  it  looked  pros 
perous.  Are  your  parents  living  there  now  ?" 

"My  father  died  before  I  was  ten,"  the  young  man 
answered,  "and  he  left  my  mother  little  more  than 
the  house  we  lived  in.  She  took  boarders  in  summer, 
and  we  were  able  to  make  both  ends  meet.  When  I 
was  sixteen  my  mother  died.  My  uncle  settled  up  our 
affairs  for  me,  and  he  was  lucky  enough  to  sell  the  old 
house  the  next  summer.  After  the  payment  of  the 
mortgage  I  had  about  a  thousand  dollars,  all  told ;  and 


16  A   CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW 

to  my  satisfaction  I  found  that  this  would  be  nearly 
enough  to  take  me  through  Brown.  I  was  in  the  class 
of  '89." 

"I  think  you  look  more  mature  than  most  men  do 
so  short  a  time  after  graduation/'  declared  Vivian. 

"  Perhaps  I  am  a  little  more  mature,"  the  young 
man  admitted.  "  But  then  I  have  had  more  experi 
ence  of  life  than  most  of  my  classmates.  I  played  on 
the  second  nine  two  years,  and  I  sang  in  the  glee  club, 
and  I  was  one  of  the  editors  of  the  paper ;  yet  all  that 
was  nothing  compared  with  the  work  I  did  in  the 
summer.  Then  I  was  a  hack-driver  at  the  Pier." 

Here  Sartain  paused  for  a  moment.  Vivian  looked 
at  him  keenly  through  the  smoke  of  his  cigar  but  said 
nothing. 

"  Of  course  that  wasn't  like  driving  a  hack  here  in 
New  York — but  I  didn't  like  it  any  better,  I  assure 
you,"  Sartain  explained.  "  Still,  I  needed  money,  and 
that  was  as  good  a  way  to  make  it  as  any  other.  My 
uncle  used  to  let  me  take  his  surrey  three  or  four 
afternoons  in  the  week,  and  I  would  go  over  to  the 
Pier.  Generally  I  managed  to  pick  up  two  or  three 
people  who  wanted  to  drive  to  Point  Judith  or  to  see 
the  Gilbert  Stuart  place — and  so  I  contrived  to  make 
about  a  hundred  dollars  every  summer." 

"That  was  an  experience,  certainly,"  said  Vivian. 
"And  I  suppose  your  fares  treated  you  just  as  the 
Summer  Boarder  always  treats  the  Native — they  acted 
just  as  if  you  had  neither  eyes  nor  ears  ?" 

"I  think  that  most  of  them  did  not  consider  me 
any  more  than  they  did  the  horse,"  Sartain  answered, 
and  his  cheeks  flushed. 

"  Yes,"  Vivian  commented,  "  you  must  have  had 


A   CONFIDENT  TO-MORROW  17 

an  invaluable  opportunity  to  discover  how  the  other 
half  lives — the  other  half  that  spends  its  summers  in 
sea-side  hotels.  There's  copy  in  it,  of  course." 

Sartain  laughed  a  little  bitterly.  "  I  didn't  like  it 
overmuch  at  the  time,  I  can  assure  you,  Mr.  Vivian," 
he  declared,  hotly.  "More  than  once  I've  felt  like 
throwing  back  the  pay  in  the  face  of  the  contemptible 
little  snob  who  had  hired  me.  I  think  it  was  that 
summer  driving  that  opened  my  eyes  to  the  hollow- 
ness  of  our  boasted  civilization  !" 

"  I  can  well  imagine  that  it  might  tend  to  do  that," 
said  the  novelist,  dryly. 

"I  know  that  I  have  detested  Society  people  ever 
since  !"  Sartain  continued.  "  I  couldn't  help  feeling 
that  there  was  something  wrong  in  a  social  organiza 
tion  which  tried  to  make  me  the  inferior  of  a  vulgar 
old  woman  who  happened  to  have  inherited  a  lot  of 
money,  when  I  was  earning  my  living  honestly  and 
when  her  money  was  the  result  of  her  father's  dis 
honesty  I" 

"  I  suppose  that  sometimes  the  money  of  your  fare 
was  rightfully  come  by  ?"  suggested  Vivian,  mildly. 

"Sometimes  it  must  have  been,  of  course,"  the 
young  man  admitted;  "and  sometimes  I  was  treated 
not  only  like  a  human  being,  but  like  a  gentleman. 
In  fact,  it  was  not  often  that  people  were  discourteous, 
and  I  don't  suppose  I  ought  to  complain.  But  I  had 
thought  that  here  in  America  all  men  were  created 
free  and  equal,  and  it  hurt  me  when  I  found  that 
other  people  deemed  me  an  inferior — other  people 
whom" I  myself  held  as  my  inferiors." 

"  Probably  I  should  not  have  liked  that  any  better 
than  you,"  said  Vivian — "at  your  age,  that  is.  At 


18  A   CONFIDENT   TO-MOEKOW 

mine,  now,  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  it  is 
things  like  that  which  make  human  nature  such  an 
amusing  spectacle." 

Sartain  was  a  little  surprised  that  the  novelist  should 
treat  a  serious  theme  thus  lightly.  He  was  about  to 
protest,  but  he  changed  his  mind  and  held  his  tongue. 

Apparently  the  host  read  the  young  man's  thoughts 
on  his  face. 

"As  a  good  citizen,"  he  continued,  "  I  denounce 
the  snob,  of  course,  and  I  stand  ready  to  command  his 
instant  execution  —  and  even  to  be  one  of  the  firing 
squad.  But  as  a  novelist,  now,  I  can't  help  thinking 
that  this  will  be  a  monstrous  world  when  the  millen 
nium  comes,  and  all  men  are  perfect." 

Again  Sartain,  who  believed  in  the  immediate  im 
provement  of  society,  found  himself  struggling  be 
tween  his  admiration  for  Vivian  and  his  desire  to  bear 
testimony  to  the  faith  that  was  in  him.  Again  he  was 
silent  merely  from  inability  to  say  what  he  wanted  to 
say,  as  he  felt  that  it  ought  to  be  said. 

"But  don't  let  me  check  the  ardor  of  youth,"  the 
novelist  went  on,  "and  let  me  be  a  warning  to  you.  If 
you  mean  to  be  a  reformer — and  I  suppose  that  there 
is  nothing  more  beautiful  in  youth  than  its  willing 
ness  to  lead  the  forlorn-hope  and  to  die  in  the  last 
ditch — if  you  mean  to  be  a  reformer,  as  I  have  said, 
you  must  not  let  your  sense  of  humor  get  the  better 
of  you.  You  must  take  it  by  the  throat  while  it  is  in 
the  gristle  and  strangle  it.  A  highly  developed  sense 
of  humor  will  prevent  a  man  from  making  a  fool  of 
himself — and  all  the  progress  of  the  world  is  due  to 
men  who  didn't  care  how  foolish  they  looked,  so  long 
as  they  gained  their  point." 


A    CONFIDENT   TO-MOKROW  19 

The  elder  man  paused  as  though  for  a  reply ;  Sar- 
tain  turned  over  in  his  mind  this  last  proposition,  and 
declared  that  he  saw  what  Mr.  Vivian  meant. 

"But  you  didn't  come  here  to  have  me  discuss  the 
psychology  of  improvement,"  the  host  went  on.  "  What 
have  you  been  doing  since  you  left  college  ?" 

"  I've  been  on  a  paper  in  Topeka — the  Tribune,"  Sar- 
tain  responded.  "  It  was  my  ambition  to  be  a  writer, 
and  I  supposed  then  that  newspaper-work  would  be  a 
good  way  of  beginning." 

"  And  you  are  not  so  sure  of  it  now  ?"  the  novelist 
asked — "that  is,  if  I  may  judge  from  your  man 
ner." 

"Well,"  began  the  young  man,  "I  don't  regret  the 
experience,  of  course — I've  had  a  chance  to  see  all  sorts 
of  things,  and  I've  mixed  with  the  people,  and  I've  been 
forced  to  study  the  current  of  events — but  I've  come  to 
the  conclusion  slowly  that  a  daily  newspaper  is  a  de 
vouring  monster,  and  that  I  had  better  get  out  of  its 
maw  while  there  is  yet  time." 

The  novelist  smiled  gently,  and  said,  "  I  should  be 
inclined  to  think  that  three  or  four  years  on  a  Kansas 
daily  might  lead  to  the  discovery  that  there  is  a  certain 
difference  between  journalism  and  literature." 

"It  didn't  take  me  long  to  find  that  out,"  Sartain 
declared,  grimly,  "and  I've  been  trying  to  get  away 
for  the  last  eighteen  months — not  that  I  don't  like  the 
Topeka  people,  for  I  do,  and  I  sympathize  with  them, 
and  I  cannot  understand  the  stupidity  of  the  Eastern 
papers  that  are  always  misrepresenting  Kansas.  But  I 
suppose  the  editors  have  to  take  their  orders  from  the 
men  who  own  the  newspapers  ;  and  I  believe  most  of 
the  New  York  papers  are  owned  in  Wall  Street." 


20  A   CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW 

"And  yet  yon  are  now  going  on  one  of  these  New 
York  papers,  I  suppose  ?"  Vivian  queried,  quietly. 

"I've  been  able  to  get  out  of  journalism,"  Sartain 
explained.  "  Carington  &  Company,  the  publishers, 
here  in  New  York,  are  getting  out  a  big  subscription- 
book  ;  it's  to  deal  with  popular  superstitions  of  all  sorts, 
and  with  the  births  and  deaths  of  great  men,  and  with 
the  dates  of  great  events — it  is  to  be  called  the  Amer 
ican  Boole  of  Days,  and  I  am  to  edit  it  for  them.  I 
begin  there  the  day  after  to-morrow.  I  shall  make 
enough  to  live  on,  and  the  labor  won't  be  so  exhaust 
ing  as  not  to  leave  me  with  time  for  my  own  work. 
Now  in  Topeka  I  had  to  grind  out  so  much  stuff  that 
even  when  I  had  the  chance,  it  was  very  hard  for  me 
to  buckle  down  to  anything  of  my  own." 

"  What  did  you  do  on  the  paper  there  ?"  Vivian 
asked. 

"I  did  everything,  first  and  last,"  Sartain  answered, 
"  except  set  type  and  canvass  for  ads.  I've  written  the 
whole  editorial  page  for  a  month  at  a  time.  I've  done 
the  theatrical  notices,  and  I've  attended  conventions  of 
all  sorts.  I  always  did  the  book  reviews,  of  course. 
At  first  I  used  to  read  the  books  carefully  and  make 
up  my  mind  slowly  —  I  don't  think  I  am  ever  very 
quick  in  making  up  my  mind.  Then  I  would  write 
two  or  three  columns  sometimes  about  the  volumes 
that  seemed  to  me  best  worth  while,  especially  about 
your  books,  and  about  the  books  that  deal  with  the 
problems  of  human  progress.  But  I  had  to  give  all 
that  up  after  three  or  four  months  ;  the  pressure  was 
too  much  for  me.  I  hadn't  time  to  read  anything,  or 
to  think  about  what  I  read,  or  about  anything  else  ;  all 
I  had  time  to  do  was  to  write.  Now,  as  I  look  back  on 


A   CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW  21 

it,  I  do  not  see  how  I  was  ever  able  to  get  my  novel 
started.  I  know  there  wasn't  a  page  of  it  written  be 
fore  two  in  the  morning,  when  I  was  always  dead  tired 
— and  I've  fallen  asleep  more  than  once  before  I  had 
written  a  stick." 

"  So  you  have  written  a  novel?"  cried  Vivian.  "What 
is  it  about  ?  Is  it  a  study  of  life  in  Kansas  ?  That 
would  be  very  interesting,  and  you  would  have  the 
field  all  to  yourself,  as  yet,  I  think." 

Sartain  was  suddenly  conscious  of  the  temerity  of 
his  choice  of  subject  and  of  the  inadequacy  of  his 
equipment. 

"  No,"  he  admitted  at  last,  "it  isn't  a  Kansas  story. 
In  fact,  I  had  planned  it  before  I  went  West.  It  is 
— well  —  it  is  an  attempt  to  follow  in  your  footsteps, 
Mr.  Vivian.  It  is  a  study  of  life  in  New  York."  And 
as  he  made  this  explanation  he  acknowledged  to  him 
self  his  presumption  in  venturing  upon  so  great  a 
theme  with  so  little  knowledge.  In  his  sensitiveness 
he  thought  he  detected  a  smile  hovering  upon  the  face 
of  his  host. 

"You  have  chosen  a  most  fascinating  subject,"  said 
Vivian,  simply.  "Some  day  —  when  we  know  each 
other  better — you  must  ask  me  what  the  old  pope, 
Pius  IX.,  used  to  say  to  visitors  to  Eome  when  they 
were  presented  to  him." 

"  I  suppose  it  must  seem  absurd  to  you,"  Sartain 
began  to  explain  hesitatingly,  "  but  I  think  you  ought  to 
be  lenient  with  me — you,  at  least — since  what  tempted 
me  was  the  greatness  of  the  opportunity  New  York 
affords  to  the  novelist,  as  you  have  proved  in  your 
own  stories — in  A  Sorry  Inheritance,  especially." 

"  Don't  suppose  that  I  am  insensible  to  the  flattery," 


22  A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW 

Vivian  responded,  with  a  light  laugh ;  "but  you  see  I 
have  to  write  about  New  York,  since  New  York  is  all  I 
know.  I  haven't  the  advantage  of  knowing  Kansas  ; 
now  don't  think  that  is  irony  !  It  isn't,  I  assure  you. 
I  sincerely  wish  I  had  your  knowledge  not  only  of 
Topeka  and  its  people,  but  also  of  Narragansett  Pier, 
seen  from  the  point  of  view  of  a  Native.  Really  I  am 
inclined  to  envy  your  possession  of  material  so  valu 
able  and  so  fresh." 

The  manner  of  the  elder  man  was  kindly,  and  the 
younger  took  heart. 

"  It  was  my  observation  of  Society  people  at  the  Pier 
which  suggested  to  me  the  writing  of  Dust  and  Ashes," 
he  declared. 

"Dust  and  Ashes  is  a  striking  title,"  Vivian  com 
mented;  "but  it  seems  to  suggest  that  your  view  of 
Society  in  New  York  is  a  little  jaundiced,  doesn't  it  ?" 

Sartain  looked  up  and  faced  him  sturdily. 

"  It  is  the  view  of  a  man  who  has  driven  a  hack  at 
Narragansett  Pier/'  he  answered,  "  and  who  has  lived 
for  years  in  Kansas." 

"  I  see,"  said  the  elder  novelist,  "  and  I  can  sympa 
thize  with  you,  I  think.  But  I  think  also  that  the 
view  which  seemed  to  you  natural  enough,  first  in 
Rhode  Island  and  then  in  Kansas,  Avill  change  only  too 
swiftly  now  that  you  are  here  in  New  York  itself." 

"  I  arrived  only  this  morning,"  the  young  man  con 
fessed,  "  and  I  have  discovered  that  already.  Some  of 
my  views  have  dissolved  now.  But  I  shall  get  others 
in  place  of  these  soon  enough.  I've  been  staring  all 
the  way  up  Fifth  Avenue — staring  like  a  hayseed." 

"  And  how  does  the  city  impress  you  now  ?"  asked 
the  New  Yorker. 


A   CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW  23 

"I  don't  know  yet — at  least,  I  haven't  been  able  to 
formulate  what  I  feel,"  was  the  answer.  "  I  am  con 
scious,  I  think,  of  a  semi-hostility — the  city  seems  so 
ugly,  so  noisy,  so  mighty,  so  overwhelming  !  It  strikes 
me  that  a  man  must  be  very  big  not  to  be  lost  here  in 
the  immensity  of  it." 

"  I  don't  suppose  it  is  easy  to  be  somebody  in  a  place 
where  a  man  doesn't  always  know  his  next-door  neigh 
bor's  name,  and  where  he  isn't  always  aware  how  many 
children  the  people  have  who  live  across  the  way,"  said 
the  novelist.  "  But  a  great  city  minds  its  own  busi 
ness,  which  is  more  than  a  little  village  ever  does ; 
and  a  man  can  be  alone,  if  he  chooses ;  and  he  can 
live  his  own  life  here.  I  won't  say  New  York  is  ever 
really  friendly  to  the  new-comer — it  is  too  self-satisfied 
for  that,  and  too  much  absorbed  in  its  own  affairs ; 
but,  on  the  other  hand,  I  don't  think  it  is  ever  hostile, 
as  you  have  fancied.  Indifferent,  rather — indifferent 
is  as  strong  an  adjective  as  I  should  use." 

"  I  suppose  you  have  the  same  love  for  New  York 
that  Dickens  had  for  London  and  that  Daudet  has 
for  Paris  ?"  Sartain  suggested. 

"1  must  not  let  you  compare  me  with  the  mas 
ters,"  Vivian  smilingly  deprecated;  "but  I  suppose 
my  feeling  is  like  theirs  in  kind,  at  least.  And  even 
if  I  had  no  lively  affection  for  the  city,  I  could  not 
help  finding  it  unfailingly  stimulating.  And  so  will 
you." 

"  I  do  now,"  returned  Sartain. 

"And  I  will  say  more,"  Vivian  went  on.  "I  con- 
tend'that  a  great  city  is  the  best  university — that  no 
matter  what  college  you  took  your  degree  at,  New 
York  is  in  itself  a  post-graduate  course." 


24  A   CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW 

"Doesn't  the  city  sometimes  charge  a  very  heavy 
fee  for  its  diploma  ?"  asked  Sartain,  slyly. 

"Not  only  that/'  admitted  Vivian,,  "but  the  exam 
ination  is  very  severe,  and  very  few  of  those  who  ma 
triculate  are  able  to  keep  up  with  the  class.  Let  us 
hope  you  will  graduate  summa  cum  laude.  And  if  you 
think  an  older  student  can  give  you  any  advice  worth 
having,  don't  hesitate  to  ask  for  it." 

Sartain  at  once  wondered  whether  it  would  be  fair 
to  request  Vivian  to  read  the  manuscript  of  Dust  and 
Ashes.  He  was  in  two  minds  about  his  own  book ;  one 
day  he  would  think  that  as  soon  as  it  was  published  it 
would  be  greeted  at  once  as  the  Great  American  novel, 
and  on  the  morrow  he  would  fear  that  the  labor  spent 
on  it  had  been  wasted. 

"  I  should  like  your  advice/'  he  began,  conquering 
his  timidity  with  an  effort. 

"  I  will  give  you  my  Five  Good  Rules  for  the  Young 
Man  of  Letters/'  Vivian  returned,  smiling,  "  the  result 
of  many  years  of  experience  and  meditation.  First, 
don't  try  to  live  by  literature,  but  have  some  other 
means  of  support — like  your  salary  from  Carington  & 
Company,  for  example.  Second,  don't  neglect  your 
health ;  that  is  to  say,  exercise  regularly,  and  stead 
fastly  refuse  to  overwork.  Third,  do  your  best  always, 
and  never  be  satisfied  with  your  second  best.  Fourth, 
try  to  please  yourself,  for  then  you  are  sure  to  please 
somebody  at  least ;  but  don't  be  too  easy  to  please. 
Fifth,  and  perhaps  this  is  the  most  important  of  all — 
certainly  it  is  the  most  practical — fifth,  sell  your  wares 
always  in  the  best  market  and  for  the  highest  price 
you  can  get.  Don't  think  of  the  pay  till  the  work  is 
done ;  but  when  it  is  done,  insist  on  its  full  value. 


A   CONFIDENT  TO-MOBBOW  25 

Follow  those  five  rules,  and  if  there  is  anything  in  you, 
it  will  have  a  fair  chance  to  come  out  and  to  reap  its 
full  reward." 

"I  shall  treasure  them  in  my  heart/'  responded  Sar- 
taiu,  smiling  in  his  turn,  and  adjusting  his  rhetoric  to 
Vivian's.  "  They  are  written  in  my  memory  in  letters 
of  gold." 

'•'And  now  I  have  given  you  my  advice,"  said  Vivi 
an,  rising  and  casting  his  cigar  into  the  fireplace, 
"let's  go  into  the  parlor  and  my  daughter  will  give 
you  a  cup  of  tea." 

"  I  shall  be  delighted,"  Sartain  declared,  as  he  stood 
up.  He  was  seized  with  a  sudden  fit  of  shyness  to 
which  he  was  determined  not  to  yield.  He  wondered 
what  manner  of  woman  this  daughter  of  the  novelist 
might  be,  and  he  was  conscious,  also,  of  a  hope  that 
the  girl  who  had  come  up  in  the  elevator  with  him, 
Miss  Dircks,  might  still  be  with  Miss  Vivian,  and  that 
he  might  make  her  acquaintance  also. 

"You  know,  I  have  three  children,"  the  novelist 
remarked;  "half  of  them  are  girls."  Then,  hav 
ing  enjoyed  the  younger  man's  stare  of  surprise,  he 
added,  "and  so  are  the  other  half!  I  have  three 
daughters  only." 

Sartain  recalled  having  read  somewhere  in  a  news 
paper  that  Mr.  Vivian  was  a  widower,  and  that  his 
eldest  daughter  kept  house  for  him.  The  swift  change 
of  the  subject  of  their  conversation  had  taken  him  by 
surprise,  and  he  did  not  see  now  how  he  could  lead  the 
talk  again  to  his  Dust  and  Ashes  and  ask  Mr.  Vivian 
to  read  it.  For  the  present  he  felt  that  the  best  he 
could  do  was  to  give  up  the  attempt.  So  he  followed 
his  host  in  silence. 


CHAPTER  III 

As  they  passed  along  the  dim  corridor  the  novelist 
continued  talking.  "Johnny  keeps  house  for  me/' 
he  said,  "  and  she  will  give  you  a  cup  of  tea.  But  I 
want  you  to  see  my  twins  also." 

Sartain  felt  that  he  was  expected  to  say  something, 
and  so  he  answered,  "Your  twins?  Why,  I  didn't 
know  you  had  any  young  children." 

The  novelist  laughed  a  little.  "Well,"  he  said, 
"  they  are  not  so  young  as  they  look,  and  they  are  not 
so  old  as  they  think  they  are.  But  you  shall  see  for 
yourself." 

With  that  he  parted  the  curtains  that  draped  the 
doorway  of  the  drawing-room  and  held  them  back  for 
his  guest  to  precede  him. 

The  picture  thus  revealed  to  Sartain  was  unex 
pected.  The  room  before  him  was  large  and  spacious, 
having  three  broad  windows,  the  curtains  of  which 
were  now  drawn  back  so  as  to  admit  as  much  light  as 
possible.  A  long,  low  table  had  been  rolled  in  front  of 
the  central  window,  and  a  chair  had  been  placed  on 
top  of  it.  Seated  on  this  chair  was  a  slim  girl  whose 
ashen  gold  hair  fell  free  over  her  shoulders  ;  and 
standing  on  the  table  behind  her  chair,  and  as  though 
walking  away  from  her,  were  two  plump  girls,  very 
much  alike,  with  rich  auburn  hair.  Four  or  five  yards 


A   CONFIDENT  TO-MORROW  27 

away  sat  a  short  young  man,  who  held  upright  on  his 
knee  a  large  sheet  of  drawing-paper  pinned  to  a  port 
folio  ;  and  on  this  he  was  rapidly  sketching  the  group. 
At  his  side  stood  a  fourth  girl,  rather  tall,  and  dressed 
somewhat  mannishly,  having  a  tailor-made  suit,  with  a 
linen  waistcoat  and  stiff  white  shirt.  So  intent  were 
the  five  persons  in  the  parlor  upon  the  business  in 
hand  that  they  took  no  notice  of  Sartain  and  his 
host. 

Vivian  broke  the  silence  by  saying  :  "  Well,  well, 
Avell  !"  whereupon  the  girls  all  started. 

"  Oh,  papa  !"  cried  one  of  the  plump  pair  on  the 
table  ;  "  how  you  frightened  me  I" 

"  If  I  am  to  be  taken  by  surprise  like  that,"  said 
the  other,  "  I  can  easily  get  thin  !" 

The  erect  young  woman  standing  by  the  chair  of 
the  artist  laughed  heartily. 

"  You  scared  me  out  of  a  week's  growth,"  she  de 
clared,  "  and  as  for  Theo  and  Dora,  why,  I  never  saw 
them  jump  so  !" 

The  girl  with  the  fragile  figure  and  the  fine  light 
hair  streaming  down  her  back  said  nothing.  Her  chair 
on  the  top  of  the  table  was  so  placed  that  she  had 
seen  the  new-comers  before  any  of  the  others  had 
caught  sight  of  them;  and  yet  she  had  not  given 
the  alarm  or  made  any  outcry.  After  a  single  glance 
at  Sartain  she  had  lowered  her  eyes.  Now  as  she  sat 
still  he  saw  a  blush  crimson  her  cheeks  and  then 
slowly  fade  away. 

Then  it  suddenly  struck  the  young  man  that  he 
was  staring  at  her  most  rudely,  and  he  turned  away  to 
look  at  the  others.  To  the  best  of  his  recollection  he 
had  never  seen  this  girl  before,  and  yet  there  was 


28  A    CONFIDENT   TO-AIOKROW 

something  about  her  which  seemed  to  him  strangely 
familiar. 

"Well,  young  people/'  said  Vivian,  "what's  going 
on  here — living  pictures  ?" 

"That's  about  it,"  answered  the  tall  girl,  coming 
forward  with  her  hands  in  her  manly  pockets.  "  The 
girls  were  just  posing  for  Madams  here." 

"  Oh,  Adams  put  you  up  to  it,  did  he  ?"  her  father 
answered,  smiling.  "  Well,  I  might  have  guessed  as 
much.  But  as  you  are  not  in  the  group,  Johnny, 
perhaps  you  can  give  my  friend  here,  Mr.  Sartain,  a 
cup  of  tea  ?" 

"I'm  afraid  the  water  has  all  boiled  away," she  said, 
going  over  to  a  table  in  the  corner  ;  "but  I'll  ring  for 
some,"  and  she  pushed  a  button  in  the  wainscoting 
behind  the  table. 

"Don't  trouble  yourself  on  my  account,"  Sartain 
found  voice  to  say.  "I  don't  care  for  tea — really,  I 
do  not !" 

"But  you  wouldn't  deprive  me  of  a  cup,  would 
yon  ?"  interrupted  Vivian.  "As  Johnny  keeps  house, 
she  refuses  to  make  fresh  tea  for  me  if  I  am  not  here 
on  time.  She  is  very  strict  with  rne.  But,  of  course, 
she  cannot  treat  a  stranger  like  you  with  the  discour 
tesy  she  reserves  for  her  father." 

"  What  will  be  thought  of  me,"  the  tall  girl  re 
sponded,  "  if  you  misrepresent  me  like  that  ?" 

"  Mr.  Sartain  comes  from  a  far  country,  John 
ny,"  Mr.  Vivian  went  on,  "and  I  want  you  to  make 
him  at  home  here.  Sartain,  this  is  my  daughter, 
Joan." 

She  held  out  her  hand  and  grasped  Sartain's  firmly, 
saying  that  they  tried  to  be  at  home  on  Saturday  af- 


A   CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW  29 

ternoon,  and  that  they  would  be  glad  always  to  give 
him  a  cnp  of  tea. 

"And  here  are  my  twins,"  continued  the  novelist, 
watching  Sartain,  as  the  young  man  glanced  about  the 
room  in  search  of  the  children  thus  introduced. 

"  Oh,  papa  !"  cried  one  of  the  plump  girls,  jumping 
from  the  table  to  the  chair  and  again  to  the  floor. 

"  I  don't  think  that  is  funny  any  longer — if  it  ever 
was !"  declared  the  other  one,  following  her  sister's 
example. 

"  These  are  my  twins,"  said  Vivian,  enjoying  his 
traditional  jest.  "Miss  Theodora  Vivian,  Miss  Doro 
thea  Vivian — Mr.  Sartain." 

The  young  people  bowed,  Sartain  a  little  stiffly, 
and  the  girls  shook  hands  with  him  heartily. 

"  That's  papa's  pet  joke,"  said  one  of  them. 

"  And  it's  our  pet  aversion,"  the  other  added.  "We 
have  not  brought  him  up  properly." 

The  manner  of  the  twins  struck  Sartain  as  some 
what  forward,  not  to  say  pert ;  and  he  marvelled  a 
little  at  their  free  and  easy  attitude  towards  their 
father.  He  feared  that  he  should  never  like  them — 
certainly  not  so  well  as  he  already  liked  the  elder  sis 
ter,  Johnny,  whose  greeting  had  been  frankly  cordial. 

The  girl  with  the  hair  down  her  back  had  been  left 
sitting  in  the  chair,  and  the  artist  was  still  sketching 
rapidly.  Now  she  made  a  movement  as  though  to 
rise. 

"  Oh,  don't  move,  please  !"  cried  the  young  man, 
with  his  pencil  poised  in  the  air.  "  Let  me  have 
another  minute  of  Cinderella,  even  if  the  Haughty 
Sisters  are  wicked  enough  to  quit." 

"  So  my  twins  were  posing  as  the  Haughty  Sisters  ?" 


30  A   CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW 

Vivian  asked,  laughing.     "  I  think  it  was  very  imper 
tinent  of  Adams  to  dare  to  ask  you." 

"  But  he  didn't,"  one  of  them  answered. 

"  We  volunteered,"  the  other  followed. 

"  The  fact  is,"  broke  in  Johnny,  "  Madams  begged 
Esther  to  sit  for  Cinderella,  and,  just  to  persuade  her, 
Theo  and  Dora  offered  to  do  the  Haughty  Sisters." 

"And  I  want  to  complain  of  them  to  you,  Mr. 
Vivian,"  said  the  young  lady  sitting  on  the  chair  on 
the  table  ;  "  they  have  treated  me  shamefully.  They 
pulled  my  hair  down  and  made  me  look  like  a 
fright !" 

Her  voice  was  low  and  sweet  and  delicately  modu 
lated.  It  awakened  a  familiar  echo  in  Sartain's  ears, 
and  yet  he  could  not  remember  when  or  where  he  had 
heard  it  before. 

"  Don't  be  a  humbug,  Esther,"  said  Dorothea ;  "  you 
know  your  hair  is  just  lovely  that  way  !" 

"  You  haven't  lived  to  be  nearly  nineteen,"  Theo 
declared,  "  without  finding  out  that  it  is  very  becom 
ing  to  you  to  have  your  hair  down." 

Sartain  had  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  girl,  and  he  saw 
her  cheeks  flush  again  and  then  slowly  pale.  He  was 
afraid  that  it  might  be  embarrassing  for  her  to  hear 
herself  discussed  thus  before  him,  as  he  had  not  been 
presented  to  her,  and  he  felt  that  it  was  uncomfortable 
for  him  also. 

"  Certainly  Cinderella  herself  never  looked  more 
charming,"  Vivian  declared,  "  and  if  I  was  not  so 
pleased  with  the  picture,  I  should  believe  it  to  be  my 
duty  to  apologize  for  interrupting  the  pose.  But 
hasn't  the  model  earned  a  rest  yet  ?"  he  asked,  turn 
ing  to  the  artist. 


A   CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW  31 

"  In  a  minute,"  the  sketcher  answered.  "  Do  wait 
till  I  get  those  lovely  folds  of  the  dress." 

"  If  it  is  only  the  drapery  that  insensate  stone  is 
copying,"  Vivian  went  on,  "why,  let  him  go  on,  and 
I  will  take  this  opportunity  to  present  Sartain  to  Miss 
Dircks." 

"  Don't  move,"  cried  the  artist,  "or  you'll  spoil  the 
folds." 

Sartain  had  stepped  forward,  and  the  girl  had  raised 
her  liquid  eyes  when  this  outcry  checked  them  both. 

"Mr.  Sartain  and  I  have  met  before,"  said  Miss 
Dircks — "at  least,  we  came  up  on  the  elevator  together." 

Sartain  bowed  but  said  nothing.  So  this  was  the 
girl  who  had  entered  the  apartment  when  he  did,  and 
that  was  how  he  came  to  be  dimly  familiar  with  her 
voice  and  her  figure.  Her  face  he  saw  now  for  the 
first  time,  and  he  could  hardly  take  his  eyes  from  it. 
He  did  not  understand  why  he  should  be  so  confused. 
He  wanted  to  say  something  brilliant,  he  did  not  care 
what,  something  that  would  show  him  off  to  advan 
tage  ;  but  he  had  never  found  himself  duller.  He 
was  absolutely  at  a  loss  for  words.  He  knew  that  he 
must  look  like  a  fool.  He  wondered  whether  all  the 
others  noticed  it — whether  she  had  perceived  it.  To 
him  it  seemed  that  the  dreadful  silence  lasted  several 
minutes. 

"There!"  the  artist  declared,  rising  to  his  feet. 
"  Fve  got  it — after  a  fashion,"  and  he  held  his  sketch 
away  from  him  and  tried  to  look  at  it  dispassionately. 
"At  any  rate,  it's  the  best  I  can  do  when  you  girls 
persist  in  chattering." 

"  Then  I  may  step  down  now  ?"  asked  the  girl  in 
the  chair. 


32  A   CONFIDENT  TO-MOKROW 

"Yes,  that's  all,  thank  you,"  answered  the  artist, 
still  intent  on  his  sketch. 

"No  manners,  has  he  ?"  commented  Theodora. 

"Just  like  him,  isn't  it?"  returned  Dorothea,  as 
they  went  over  to  look  at  the  drawing. 

Miss  Dircks  had  risen  to  her  feet  and  was  now 
about  to  descend  from  her  pedestal. 

"Allow  me  to  assist  you,"  said  Sartain,  delighted 
that  he  had  found  his  tongue  again.  He  stepped  to 
her  side  and  proffered  his  hand. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  answered,  laying  only  the  tips  of 
her  fingers  on  his  wrist  and  jumping  lightly  to  the 
chair  and  thence  to  the  floor. 

"  Oh,  papa  !"  cried  Dorothea,  "just  see  what  a  hate 
ful  picture  Madams  has  made  of  us  !  I  hope  and  trust 
you  will  never  ask  him  to  lunch  again  !" 

"  There !"  added  Theodora,  thrusting  the  huge 
sheet  of  paper  under  her  father's  nose.  "You  didn't 
suppose  your  red -headed  twins  ever  looked  as  disa 
greeable  as  that,  did  you  ?  I  think  you  ought  to  order 
Madams  to  leave  the  house  at  once  !" 

Vivian  had  felt  in  his  pocket  for  his  glasses.  Hav 
ing  adjusted  them  on  his  nose,  he  examined  the  sketch. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "  you  haven't  flattered  the  Haugh 
ty  Sisters,  have  you  ?  —  but  you  caught  the  likeness 
most  absurdly.  I  shall  never  let  you  illustrate  a  story 
of  mine  again  !" 

"Serves  you  right,  Madams,"  Johnny  declared. 

"  Oh,  there  are  others,"  the  artist  blandly  returned. 
"And  it  is  unfair  for  you  to  expect  me  to  provide 
both  the  art  and  the  ability  to  appreciate  it.  That  is 
absolutely  opposed  to  the  principle  of  the  division  of 
labor." 


A   CO^FIDEXT  TO-MORROW  33 

"  Sartain  !"  called  Vivian  to  the  young  man,  who 
was  still  standing  by  the  side  of  Miss  Dircks  and  lis 
tening  to  the  easy  flow  of  her  talk,  and  wishing  that 
he  could  say  a  word  now  and  then  that  did  not  sound 
hopelessly  flat  the  moment  it  left  his  mouth.  "Sar 
tain,"  Vivian  began,  "  I  want  you  to  know  Emerson 
Adams  here,  and  I  want  him  to  know  you,  too,  for  he 
can  find  his  way  around  this  motley  town  of  ours  and 
show  you  many  a  thing  I  don't  know  anything  about." 

The  two  young  men  bowed  a  little  stiffly — both  of 
them.  Sartain  thought  that  Adams  had  bad  manners  ; 
and  then  it  came  to  him  in  a  flash  that  the  artist 
would  be  justified  in  thinking  that  his  manners  were 
also  inferior. 

" Emerson,"  continued  Vivian,  "I  hope  you  will  be 
kind  to  Sartain  here  and  lend  him  the  benefit  of  your 
vast  experience  of  life." 

"  If  all  he  wants  of  me  is  a  share  of  my  experience, 
I  can  afford  to  supply  him,"  said  the  artist,  running 
one  hand  through  his  shock  of  curly  hair,  which  was 
very  thick  and  very  black.  "I've  got  experience  to 
burn." 

"What  is  this  I've  heard  about  you  in  Eome  last 
winter  ?"  the  novelist  continued.  "  Did  you  really  re 
fuse  to  go  and  see  the  Sistine  Chapel  on  the  ground 
that  '  Michaelangelo  was  a  d — d  dago  back-number  T " 

"  That's  just  the  way  my  innocent  remarks  are  al 
ways  misrepresented,"  explained  Adams.  "I  allowed 
them  to  take  me  to  the  Sistine  Chapel,  and  all  I  said 
was  that  the  decoration  looked  as  if  it  had  been  done 
'before  the  war'  —  and  that  Michaelangelo  ought  to 
study  the  Japanese  if  he  wanted  to  be  up  to  date." 

"You  know  what  I  have  already  told  you,  Emer- 


34  A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW 

son  ?"  Vivian  returned,  smiling.  "  I  have  always  de 
clared  that  your  opinions  are  more  interesting  than 
they  are  valuable." 

Sartaiu  listened  in  silence  to  this  exchange,  and  he 
did  not  know  quite  what  to  make  of  it.  He  felt  him 
self  to  be  truly  a  stranger  in  a  strange  land,  not  wholly 
understanding  the  dialect  of  its  inhabitants.  He  saw 
that  Mr.  Vivian  seemed  to  enjoy  the  flavor  of  Adams's 
talk.  He  saw  also,  or  thought  he  did,  that  the  artist 
was  fully  aware  of  the  effect  produced  by  his  unex 
pected  sayings.  He  found  himself  suspecting  that 
perhaps  Adams  had  made  use  of  some  of  them  before, 
or,  at  least,  had  thought  them  up  in  advance.  None 
the  less  did  Sartain  envy  the  ease  of  Adams's  conver 
sation,  and  of  the  artist's  attitude  towards  the  world 
generally.  He  wished  that  he  was  as  free  from  self- 
consciousness  as  Adams  was  ;  he  wished  that  he  could 
talk  as  lightly  and  as  flippantly ;  he  wished  that  he 
was  not  intimidated  by  the  presence  of  four  agreeable 
girls. 

It  was  before  Miss  Dircks  that  he  was  most  de 
sirous  of  appearing  to  advantage ;  and  yet,  when  he 
tried  to  chat  with  her,  his  tongue  refused  to  do  the 
bidding  of  his  will.  Apparently  the  two  lobes  of  his 
brain  gave  contradictory  orders,  and  he  was  able  only 
to  stutter  forth  a  few  incoherent  remarks.  He  was 
at  a  loss  also  to  answer  the  glancing  chatter  of  the 
twins,  in  which  there  was  often  an  ironic  flavor  of  per 
sonality.  For  him,  on  that  memorable  afternoon,  con 
versation  was  easiest  with  Mr.  Vivian's  eldest  daughter. 
Johnny's  frank  directness  was  not  embarrassing  to  him, 
unaccustomed  as  he  was  to  young  women  who  had 
adopted  ways  that  seemed  to  him  unduly  masculine. 


A   CONFIDENT  TO-MORROW  35 

Tt  was  a  relief  to  him,  therefore,  when  the  white- 
capped  maid  appeared  with  a  steaming  kettle. 

"  Can't  I  have  another  cup,  too  ?"  asked  Adams,  who 
had  followed  Sartain  over  to  the  tea-table.  "But  I 
want  lemon  in  mine.  That  was  a  real  lemony  lemon 
you  gave  me  in  my  first  cup.  Now  don't  insult  my 
tea  by  putting  sugar  in  it !" 

"  This  isn't  yours,"  she  returned.  "  This  is  papa's. 
Won't  you  give  it  to  him,  please  ?"  And  she  handed 
the  cup  to  Sartain. 

"  Oh,  certainly,"  said  the  young  man. 

He  took  the  cup  to  Mr.  Vivian,  who  was  standing  in 
the  centre  window  talking  to  Miss  Dircks. 

"  Can't  I  get  you  a  cup  of  tea  also  ?"  he  managed  to 
say  to  her. 

"Thank  you,"  she  answered,  with  the  smile,  which 
seemed  to  Sartain  to  be  her  chief  charm,  "but  I  have 
had  two  already,  and  father  doesn't  approve  of  tea- 
drinking,  lie  thinks  tea  is  almost  as  bad  for  us  as 
rum." 

Low  as  her  voice  was,  it  was  singularly  clear  and 
it  carried  far.  This  last  remark  of  hers  was  heard 
by  Adams,  still  standing  by  the  tea-table  in  the  next 
window. 

"Tf  tea  is  as  bad  for  us  as  rum,  Miss  Johnny,"  he 
said,  "perhaps  you  may  put  a  drop  or  two  of  your  rum 
in  my  tea,  just  to  set  one  evil  off  against  the  other." 

"I  will  give  it  to  you  if  you  must  have  it,"  the 
girl  said,  "  but  some  day  we  shall  have  to  insist  on  your 
swearing  off." 

"  So  far,"  Adams  rejoined,  "I  have  been  able  to  re 
sist  all  appeals  to  take  the  pledge.  You  see,  I  believe 
that  a  man  ought  to  set  a  good  example  to  himself." 


36  -A   CONFIDENT  TO-MORROW 

"Don't  be  absurd/'  she  returned,,  "but  make  your 
self  useful  and  pass  the  sandwiches  to  Mr.  Sartain." 

The  artist  took  up  the  plate,  on  which  there  were  a 
dozen  disks  of  bread  with  the  pale-green  of  a  lettuce 
leaf  showing  at  the  edges. 

He  handed  it  to  Sartain,  saying,  "He  can  eat  grass 
if  he  likes — but  my  name  is  not  Nebuchadnezzar." 

"Nebuchadnezzar  wasn't  the  only  creature  in  the 
Bible  who  went  on  all -fours,"  declared  one  of  the 
twins,  who  had  now  crossed  the  room  to  the  tea-table 
corner. 

Sartain  had  stepped  back  and  a  little  to  one  side. 
He  did  not  know  quite  what  to  make  of  these  people. 
He  felt  a  little  out  of  place  among  them.  He  had 
never  seen  a  young  man  drink  rum  in  tea,  and  he  had 
never  seen  a  young  lady  help  him  to  it.  He  had  never 
eaten  lettuce  sandwiches  before,  and  he  wondered  how 
they  were  cut  out,  and  how  it  was  that  a  vague  taste 
of  delicate  cheese  lingered  in  his  mouth.  He  liked 
the  flavor,  and  he  liked  also  the  tea  itself.  He  liked 
to  listen  to  the  merry  chaffing  of  the  others,  even 
though  he  could  not  take  part  in  it.  He  liked  espe 
cially  to  look  at  Miss  Dircks,  who  was  still  talking  with 
Mr.  Vivian. 

Sartain  watched  them ;  and  he  saw  for  the  first 
time,  as  she  stood  in  the  cold  north  light  of  the  cen 
tre  window,  how  ethereal  the  girl  seemed  to  be.  He 
felt  sure  that  she  could  not  weigh  a  hundred  pounds. 
Her  soft  gray  dress  seemed  to  emphasize  the  radiance 
of  her  flower  -  like  face,  with  its  broad,  low  forehead, 
its  deep  gray  eyes,  and  with  its  ashen-gold  hair  float 
ing  about  it  like  a  halo.  It  was  not  that  she  was  sur 
passingly  beautiful,  so  Sartain  said  to  himself,  for  he 


A    CONFIDENT   TO-5IORROAV  37 

could  not  honestly  say  that  she  was;  it  was  rather 
that  she  was  infinitely  charming.  As  she  chatted 
vivaciously  with  Mr.  Vivian,  Sartain  was  able  to  cata 
logue  her  good  points — the  Cupid's  bow  of  her  mouth, 
the  graceful  curves  of  her  shell-like  ear,  the  trans 
parency  of  her  complexion.  He  watched  the  color 
come  and  go  in  her  cheek,  until  at  last  it  deepened 
and  she  raised  her  eyes  to  his,  whereupon  he  discov 
ered  once  more  that  he  had  been  staring  at  her  rudely. 

Mr.  Vivian  had  followed  her  glance,  and  his  gaze 
now  fell  upon  the  young  man  standing  alone. 

"Sartain,"  he  cried,  "set  that  cup  down  anywhere 
and  come  here  and  see  how  beautiful  Central  Park  is 
in  the  glory  of  an  October  afternoon.  It  is  brown 
now,  and  a  little  bare  —  but  beautiful  always,"  said 
Vivian.  "  To  me  this  view  is  an  unfailing  delight. 
It  is  better  than  any  picture  painted  by  the  hand  of 
man,  for  it  is  never  twice  the  same,  and  yet  it  is  al 
ways  what  it  was  designed  to  be.  I  don't  know  what 
season  of  the  year  I  like  it  best  at.  The  greenery  of 
the  spring  isn't  fairer  than  the  splendid  color  of  the 
fall.  And  that  little  lake  down  there,  far  below  the 
street  level,  is  more  effective  in  the  picture  when  it  is 
frozen  and  covered  with  darting  midgets  than  it  is  to 
day  with  its  swan-boats  all  in  use — as  they  usually  are 
on  a  Saturday  afternoon  when  it  doesn't  rain." 

"  So  these  are  the  swan-boats  I  have  read  about !" 
Sartain  commented.  "  And  I  suppose  those  are  Lo- 
hengrins  of  Lexington  Avenue  taking  out  their  Elsas 
of  the  East  Side." 

^ 

As  he  said  this  he  was  pleased  that  he  had  at  last 
been  able  to  put  together  a  sentence  with  a  literary 
flavor ;  yet  no  sooner  was  it  said  than  its  utter  vapid- 


38  A    CONFIDENT   TO-MOEROW 

ity  was  revealed  to  him,  and  again  he  writhed  inward 
ly  that  he  could  not  help  talking  nonsense  before  her. 

"Adams  says  that  the  East  Side  Elsas,  as  you  call 
them,  are  likely  sooner  or  later  to  find  out  that  all 
their  swans  are  geese,"  the  novelist  returned. 

The  girl  with  the  halo  of  fine-spun  hair  was  stand 
ing  between  them  in  the  window,  listening  to  one  and 
the  other  with  obvious  interest  and  yet  taking  no  part 
in  their  conversation. 

At  last  she  said,  "When  we  first  came  to  New 
York,  my  father  took  me  out  in  one  of  those  boats 
and  I  thought  I  was  in  heaven  !" 

Mr.  Vivian  looked  at  her  and  his  kindly  eye  filled 
with  admiration.  "I  should  like  to  have  been  the 
knight  you  were  awaiting,  my  dear — if  you  looked  as 
much  like  Elsa  then  as  you  do  now." 

The  girl  blushed  again. 

"  I  must  look  like  a  fright,"  she  said,  raising  her 
hands  to  her  head,  "with  my  hair  down  like  this. 
But  it  isn't  my  fault,  really — it  was  Dora  and  Theo 
who  insisted  on  it.  I  hope  you  will  scold  them  for  it." 

Mr.  Vivian  smiled,  still  looking  at  her  with  appre 
ciation. 

"  I  will  forgive  them  this  time,"  he  declared  ;  "  but 
only  on  condition  that  they  do  it  again." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Vivian,"  she  said,  "now  you  are  laugh 
ing  at  me  !" 

Sartain  wanted  to  frame  a  hope  that  if  she  were 
ever  accused  as  Elsa  was,  he  might  be  within  sound  of 
the  trumpets,  to  be  called  as  her  champion.  But  he 
could  not  find  fit  words  for  the  wish ;  and  then  the 
fear  came  upon  him  that  this  would  be  quite  as  absurd 
as  his  last  speech. 


A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW  39 

He  admired  the  novelist,  but  he  was  ready  just  then 
almost  to  resent  the  possession  by  another  man  of  the 
tact  he  was  devoid  of  himself.  He  took  note  of  the 
studied  simplicity  of  Vivian's  attire,  the  unobtrusive 
Greek  coin  in  the  scarf,  the  neatness  with  which  the 
grayish  beard  and  whiskers  had  been  combed,  the 
general  air  of  satisfied  success  that  surrounded  the 
elder  man.  He  was  sufficiently  acquainted  with  the 
novelist's  biography  to  know  that  Vivian  had  started 
with  advantages  no  greater  than  his  own ;  and  he 
asked  himself  why  he  should  not  in  time  climb  to  the 
heights  the  elder  man  had  attained. 

The  westering  sun  liquified  the  golden  ribs  and 
reticulations  of  a  dome  far  in  the  distance,  on  the 
eastern  edge  of  the  Park,  and  Sartain  stared  at  this 
fixedly,  while  his  hopes  sprang  forward  into  the  future, 
and  he  saw  himself  at  the  age  of  the  man  beside  him, 
in  a  room  as  luxuriously  appointed  as  this — he,  too, 
surrounded  by  admiration,  and  able,  in  his  turn,  to 
hold  out  a  helping  hand  to  promising  novices,  and 
ready  to  smooth  the  way  for  them  to  follow  in  his 
footsteps. 

He  was  roused  from  his  revery  by  Miss  Dircks. 

"  How  short  the  days  are  now,  aren't  they  ?"  she 
asked.  "It  is  dark  long  before  dinner — and  I  think 
that  is  horrid,  don't  you  ?  I  like  to  be  out  in  the  after 
noon  and  have  it  light  till  six  o'clock." 

This  gave  Sartain  a  chance  at  last. 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  "I  like  to  have  daylight  in  the 
daytime  ;  but  I  confess  that  I  am  fond  of  the  hour 
'  when  Twilight  lets  her  curtain  down  and  pins  it  with 
a  star,'  as  the  mad  poet  said." 

"  That's  where  those  rhymesters  have  the  advantage 


40  A   CONFIDENT  TO-MOKROW 

of  us  prose  men,  isn't  it  ?"  Vivian  broke  in.  "They 
can  descend  to  posterity  by  a  single  line." 

"  They  have  had  that  advantage  in  the  past,  per 
haps/'  Sartain  admitted  ;  "but  are  they  going  to  keep 
it  in  the  future  ?  Don't  you  believe  the  coming  man 
will  prefer  prose  ?  I  think  rhyme  is  likely  to  be  given 
up,  and  perhaps  rhythm  too." 

"  I  should  be  very  sorry  to  think  that  there  wasn't 
going  to  be  any  more  poetry,"  the  girl  responded. 

"  You  needn't  be  alarmed  about  that,"  the  elder 
novelist  declared,  with  his  light  laugh.  "  The  coming 
man  won't  go  without  his  song  any  more  willingly  than 
he  will  go  without  his  supper." 

Miss  Dircks  looked  away  from  the  window  into  the 
room,  in  which  the  early  gloom  of  a  winter  afternoon 
was  already  beginning  to  gather. 

"  It  is  nearly  supper-time  now,  isn't  it  ?"  she  asked. 

The  novelist  looked  at  his  watch.  "It  is  only  a 
little  after  five,"  he  answered.  "But  why  should  you 
be  in  a  hurry  to  go  home  ? — and  why  go  at  all  ?  Why 
not  stay  and  dine  with  us  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  can't,"  she  responded.  "  Father  is  coming 
for  me,  and  he  likes  me  to  read  his  paper  to  him  in  the 
evening,  especially  on  Saturdays — then  there  is  always 
more  news  from  Europe.  He  is  still  longing  for  a 
great  battle  in  Europe  that  will  hurl  all  the  wicked 
kings  from  their  thrones." 

' '  He  can  wait  for  that  till  after  you  have  had  your 
dinner  with  us  to-night,  can't  he  ?"  the  novelist  urged. 

"  I'd  dearly  love  to  stay  with  Theo  and  Dora,  of 

course,"  she  answered;  "and  father  always  wants  me 

to  have  a  good  time.     But  he'd  really  miss  my  reading 

the  paper  to  him — and  so  I  think  I'd  better  not  stay." 

I 


A   CONFIDENT  TO-MOHROW  41 

"  After  that  I  have  no  right  to  insist,"  Mr.  Vivian 
responded.  Then  he  turned  to  Sartain. 

"  Why  can't  you  stay  and  have  dinner  with  us, 
then  ?"  he  asked. 

The  tone  was  warm,  and  yet  the  young  man  felt  in 
stantly  moved  to  decline  the  invitation.  He  would 
have  liked  to  dine  with  the  Vivians,  although  he  pre 
ferred  that  Miss  Dircks  should  be  also  of  the  company. 
But  she  was  going  now,  and  it  seemed  to  Sartain  that 
perhaps  the  invitation  had  been  extended  to  him  only 
because  he  had  been  present  when  she  was  asked.  So 
he  began  to  make  excuses  at  once. 

"  It's  very  kind  of  you  to  ask  me,  of  course,"  he  said, 
with  a  return  of  his  stammering  shyness.  "  But  it  is 
impossible — quite  impossible — that  is,  to-night.  You 
see,  I  have  only  just  arrived  to-day — and  there  are  any 
number  of  things  I  ought  to  do  this  evening." 

"  Perhaps  some  other  night,  then,"  Vivian  rejoined ; 
"  later  in  the  winter — when  you  are  settled." 

"I  shall  be  delighted,"  Sartain  answered. 

While  they  had  been  standing  in  the  window  he  had 
heard  frequent  laughter  from  the  corner  on  his  left. 
Now,  as  they  both  turned  their  backs  on  the  view  out- 
of  -  doors,  they  saw  the  four  girls  listening  to  the 
artist,  who  was  describing  the  difficulty  he  had  had 
in  getting  the  material  he  needed  to  make  the  illus 
trations  for  a  story,  the  scene  of  which  was  laid  in 
Kome. 

"  What  did  I  know  about  those  cardinals  ?"  he  was 
saying ;  "  and  I  couldn't  get  anybody  to  tell  me 
whether  they  lived  in  the  Vatican  or  boarded  out.  So 
I  dodged  the  difficulty  and  made  them  standing  out 
on  the  stoop  of  St.  Peter's." 


42  A   CONFIDENT  TO-MORROW 

"  Was  the  author  satisfied  with  that  ?"  asked  the 
novelist. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  the  artist  responded.  "  Prob 
ably  not.  Authors  are  generally  so  unreasonable — 
sometimes  they  really  want  an  illustrator  to  read  their 
manuscripts  !  Now  what  can  be  more  cramping  to  the 
genius  of  an  artist  than  to  be  tied  down  to  the  prosaic 
facts  in  a  manuscript  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  one  of  the  twins,  ' '  it  is  always  hard  for 
Madams  to  be  tied  down  to  the  facts  I" 

"  In  conversation,  at  any  rate,"  added  the  other, 
"Madams  just  invents  all  the  facts  he  needs." 

The  artist  paid  no  attention  to  this  interruption. 

"I  don't  know  how  much  the  author  liked  my  draw 
ing,"  he  went  on,  "but  the  art-editor  of  the  Arctic 
Monthly  liked  it,  and  so  I  raised  my  price  on  him. 
Did  I  ever  tell  you,"  he  asked,  addressing  himself  to 
Vivian,  but  after  a  glance  that  swept  Sartain  also  into 
the  conversation,  "  my  new  trick  for  getting  ahead  of 
art-editors  ?  It  is  a  beauty,  and  I've  worked  it  on  two 
or  three  of  them  already." 

"  Set  forth  your  scheme,"  said  Vivian,  who  seemed 
to  enjoy  inciting  him  to  further  self-revelation. 

"Like  all  really  great  inventions,  it's  very  simple," 
Adams  replied.  "  Whenever  I  take  in  a  drawing  which 
I  think  pretty  good,  I  make  out  two  bills  for  it,  one 
for  my  regular  price  for  such  work,  and  one  for  about 
a  third  more  than  my  regular  price.  The  ordinary  bill 
I  put  in  my  right  pocket,  and  the  extra-ordinary  bill  I 
put  in  my  left  pocket.  Then,  if  the  art-editor  doesn't 
grumble  more  than  his  custom,  I  take  the  regular  bill 
out  of  my  right  pocket.  But  if  I  can  see  he  thinks 
my  work  is  better  than  usual,  and  just  what  he  wants 


A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW  43 

— and  especially  if  he  calls  in  somebody  elso  to  admire 
it — why,  then  I  go  down  into  rny  left  pocket  and  pull 
out  the  bigger  bill,  and  I  tell  him  I  was  sure  he  would 
see  what  a  very  swell  thing  I'd  done  this  time — and 
before  he  knows  where  he  is,  I've  got  him  to  pass  the 
extra  price.  Oh,  I  tell  you,  a  man  who  is  selling  his 
goods  to  art-editors,  he  has  just  got  to  have  the  wis 
dom  of  the  serpent !" 

"  Well,  I  think  that  is  rather  a  snaky  trick  to  play 
on  the  poor  man,"  commented  Johnny,  with  her  hands 
in  her  masculine  pockets. 

"  He  isn't  a  poor  man,"  retorted  Adams.  "At  least, 
it  was  the  publisher's  money  I  got  out  of  him  —  and 
whoever  heard  of  a  poor  publisher  ?" 

"  Do  you  maintain  that  all  publishers  are  wealthy  ?" 
asked  Vivian. 

"All  of  them  !"  Adams  returned.  "They  are  all 
rolling  in  ill-gotten  gains,  made  out  of  the  sweat  of 
our  brows,  and  I'll  prove  it  to  you.  Isn't  it  a  publish 
er  who  gives  the  best  dinners  in  New  York  ?  And  I 
don't  give  dinners,  do  I?" 

"  I  don't  believe  you  even  dine  out  with  anybody 
else,"  said  Vivian  with  his  light  laugh.  "  At  least,  you 
refuse  to  dine  with  us  to-night.  And  neither  Avill  Sar- 
tain,  here." 

"  It  is  very  kind  of  you  to  ask  me,"  declared  Sartain, 
a  little  awkwardly,  twisting  the  end  of  his  thin,  brown 
beard.  "  I'm  afraid  I  have  stayed  too  long  already." 

"  You  must  come  again  when  you  can  stay  longer," 
said  Johnny,  shaking  hands  with  him  heartily. 

The  other  three  girls  had  drawn  back  into  the  cor 
ner,  and  the  twins  were  aiding  Miss  Dircks  to  ar 
range  her  fair  tresses.  Sartain  did  not  know  whether 


44  A   CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW 

to  go  over  to  them  to  bid  them  good-bye  or  merely 
to  bow.  He  hesitated,  and  took  a  step  towards  the 
corner,  and  then  took  two  steps  towards  the  door. 
Then  he  looked  back  again  and  chanced  to  catch  the 
eye  of  the  slim  girl,  who  had  her  hands  above  her  head 
and  her  mouth  full  of  hair-pins.  This  time  she  bowed 
in  almost  as  much  confusion  as  he. 


CHAPTER   IV 

WHEN  Sartain  stepped  out  of  the  elevator  on  the 
ground-floor  of  the  house  in  which  Mr.  Vivian  had  his 
apartment,  he  found  himself  face  to  face  with  a  large, 
heavy  man,  perhaps  sixty  years  of  age,  who  was  wait 
ing  to  be  taken  up. 

Adams  had  forgotten  his  portfolio  on  the  seat  of  the 
elevator,  and  while  he  was  getting  this  Sartain  had  a 
chance  to  observe  that  the  elderly  man  with  the  robust 
frame  had  a  full  white  beard  and  long  white  hair  fall 
ing  low  on  the  worn  collar  of  his  shabby  overcoat.  But 
the  most  striking  features  of  the  face  were  his  bushy 
eyebrows,  bristling  above  a  pair  of  fiery  black  eyes,  and 
to  some  extent  contradicting  the  old  man's  general 
aspect  of  benevolence.  Perhaps  it  was  this  contra 
diction  that  interested  Sartain ;  and  he  found  himself 
wishing  that  he  knew  who  this  old  man  was,  who 
seemed  to  him  like  a  character  right  out  of  a  book  or 
all  ready  to  go  into  a  book. 

When  Adams  caught  sight  of  the  man  with  the 
huge  eyebrows  he  held  out  his  hand  cordially. 

"  Good  -  afternoon,  Mr.  Dircks  !"  he  said,  and  it 
struck  Sartain  that  there  was  a  hint  of  deference  in 
the  pointer's  manner  not  to  be  detected  when  he  was 
talking  to  Mr.  Vivian.  "Have  you  come  for  Miss 
Esther  ?" 


46  A   CONFIDENT  TO-MOBROW 

"  She's  ready  by  now,  ain't  she  ?"  Dircks  answered, 
slowly,  after  shaking  hands  with  Adams,  and  then  get 
ting  into  the  elevator.  "I  don't  want  she  should 
come  home  before  she  is  ready." 

"  Oh  yes,  she's  waiting  for  you,  I  think,"  Adams  re 
sponded.  Then  the  elevator  started  upward. 

"  Is  that  the  father  of  Miss  Esther  Dircks  ?"  Sartain 
asked,  as  he  and  the  artist  passed  into  the  street  and 
turned  towards  Fifth  Avenue. 

"Yes, "Adams  replied.  "Queer -looking  old  boy, 
isn't  he  ?  Looks  like  a  cross  between  a  crank  and  a 
freak — just  the  sort  of  man  who  would  believe  in 
health -food  and  sanitary  underclothes,  doesn't  he? 
He  might  be  the  proprietor  of  Perkin's  Patent  Hygienic 
Mince-pies,  or  something  of  that  sort.  But  any  man 
who  picks  Kaphael  Dircks  up  for  a  fool  can  lay  him 
self  down  for  a  flat.  I  believe  the  old  man  thinks  that 
he's  a  socialist  or  an  anarchist,  but  I  guess  he  isn't 
enough  of  one  to  hurt." 

"Now  you  suggest  it,"  Sartain  declared,  "perhaps 
he  does  look  a  little  like  some  of  Turgenieff's  charac 
ters.  Didn't  his  daughter  say  something  about  his 
wanting  a  general  war  ?" 

"I  guess  that's  what  she  has  heard  him  say,"  the 
artist  returned.  "But  I  don't  believe  he'd  set  the 
North  River  on  fire,  even  if  he  could.  If  he  did,  he'd 
find  it  harder  than  ever  to  make  a  living." 

"  What  is  he  ?"  asked  Sartain,  wondering  how  it 
was  that  the  delicate-looking  girl  he  had  just  left  could 
have  a  father  of  an  appearance  so  formidable  and  of 
opinions  so  incendiary. 

"  He's  an  engraver  on  wood,"  Adams  explained, 
"and  one  of  the  best  in  the  business,  too.  lie  can 


A   CONFIDENT  TO-MORROW  47 

cnt  a  block  so  as  to  bring  out  the  dreamy  poetic  ef 
fects  in  a  landscape  better  than  any  man  in  America. 
He's  got  a  Dutch  thoroughness  and  a  Yankee  delicacy 
of  touch.  But  there  isn't  much  in  it  now.  Process 
is  crowding  out  wood  -  engraving,  and  the  engravers 
will  have  to  learn  another  trade.  Of  course,  the  best 
of  them  don't  feel  it  so  much,  but  they  are  all  hurt. 
The  old  man  looked  shabby,  didn't  he  ?  I  guess  that 
won't  make  him  any  better  satisfied  with  the  structure 
of  society.  If  he  can't  get  work,  he'll  think  he  wants 
to  blow  us  all  to  blazes  with  dynamite  every  day  before 
dinner. " 

"  Is  he  —  is  he  very  intimate  with  Mr.  Vivian  ?" 
Sartain  emboldened  himself  to  inquire. 

"  It's  his  daughter  who  knows  the  twins,"  explained 
the  artist.  "  They  all  went  to  school  together.  Now 
the  girls  are  as  friendly  as  ever,  although  the  old  man 
can't  find  it  very  easy  to  keep  up  with  the  procession, 
Avhile  the  Vivians  are  just  rolling  in  money." 

Sartain's  hope  leaped  forward,  and  he  saw  the  day 
when  his  own  books  should  be  as  popular  as  Vivian's, 
and  when  he  could  surround  the  woman  he  might  love 
with  a  like  luxury. 

He  expressed  to  Adams  his  satisfaction  in  discover 
ing  that  literature  had  this  ample  reward. 

"  Oh,"  cried  the  artist,  "  don't  you  make  any  mis 
take  !  It  isn't  Vivian's  money  that  runs  that  show  of 
theirs  !" 

"Don't  his  stories  sell  ?"  asked  Sartain,  in  surprise. 

"  I  don't  know  whether  they  do  or  they  don't," 
Adams  returned.  "  But  the  best  love-story  he  ever 
told  was  when  he  got  his  wife  to  marry  him!  She  was 
the  only  child  of  a  very  wealthy  man.  Now  she's 


48  A   CONFIDENT  TO-MORROW 

dead,  and  Vivian  is  a  cheerful  widower,  and  Johnny 
and  the  twins  have  about  ten  thousand  a  year  apiece. 
I've  an  idea  that  the  girls  are  very  good  to  their  father ; 
they  put  up  for  the  apartment  and  everything  ;  and 
all  he  has  to  do  with  the  money  he  makes  himself  is 
to  buy  his  own  clothes,  and  his  cigars,  and  a  picture 
now  and  then.  He  bought  a  little  thing  of  mine  at 
the  Artists'  last  spring.  They've  got  it  at  their  coun 
try-place  in  the  Berkshires.  I  went  down  for  a  week 
to  see  that  it  was  hung  in  the  right  light.  They  do 
know  how  to  make  a  man  feel  at  home  there,  I  tell 
you  —  hot  and  cold  whiskey  in  every  room  in  the 
house  !" 

Sartain  was  at  one  with  him  in  thinking  that  the 
novelist's  daughters  were  very  agreeable  young  ladies. 

"  Johnny  is  the  salt  of  the  earth/'  Adams  returned  ; 
"  she's  a  perfect  gentleman  !  And  the  bronze-plated 
twins  are  good  little  girls  too.  I'm  in  love  with  both 
of  them  ;  and  if  bigamy  wasn't  against  the  law  I'd  pro 
pose  to  the  pair  of  them.  I  don't  believe  I'd  have  any 
difficulty  in  living  up  to  twenty  thousand  a  year." 

"  I  noticed  that  they  were  very  friendly  with  you," 
commented  the  other.  "  But  why  do  they  call  you 
Madams  ?" 

"  It  sounds  as  if  I  were  two  French  women,  doesn't 
it  ?"  the  artist  responded.  "Well,  you  see  they  knew 
me  too  well  to  be  formal  and  address  me  as  '  Mr.  Ad 
ams,'  and  Johnny  thought  I  wasn't  serious  enough  to 
be  called  ' Emerson';  you  see,  Theo  and  Dora  are  only 
eighteen,  and  Johnny  is  twenty -two!  So  they  con 
tracted  'Emerson  Adams'  into  -  Madams. ": 

They  were  walking  along  Fifty-ninth  Street  by  the 
edge  of  Central  Park,  and  the  end  of  the  day  was  near. 


A   CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW  49 

The  leaves  had  fallen  from  the  most  of  the  reddened 
maples.  The  air  was  warmer  than  it  had  been  in  the 
morning,  but  a  chill  breeze  now  blew  spasmodically. 
To  the  north,  over  the  Park,  the  sky  was  cold  and  gray. 
The  lowering  clouds  threatened  a  storm. 

They  skirted  the  Plaza  and  then  turned  southward 
into  Fifth  Avenue.  As  Sartain  looked  down  that  fa 
mous  vista,  the  struggling  sun  on  the  horizon  broke 
through  and  flooded  the  tops  of  the  tall  buildings  with 
glory.  The  spires  of  the  Cathedral  rose  white  and 
glistening  in  the  distance  against  a  dark  bank  of  slate- 
colored  cloud. 

"There,"  cried  the  artist  in  delight,  "isn't  that 
beautiful  ?" 

"  What  ?"  asked  Sartain  looking  about  him  in  sur 
prise. 

"  This  !"  answered  Adams,  making  a  broad  gesture. 
"  The  whole  thing  !  This  is  what  makes  life  worth 
living  here  in  New  York  —  this  mellow  atmosphere 
and  this  splendid  sunlight." 

"  I  can  see  what  you  mean,  I  think,"  the  new-comer 
admitted;  "there  is  a  certain  picturesqueness,  and — " 

"Picturesqueness  !"  interrupted  the  artist  vehement 
ly,  "of  course  there's  picturesqueness  —  but  there's 
beauty,  too,  if  you  have  only  eyes  to  see  it.  I  hope 
yon  don't  take  any  stock  in  that  rant  of  Buskin's 
about  the  country  being  better  than  the  city  ?  That's 
all  rubbish  and  tommyrot !  A  great  city  is  the  final 
achievement  of  'this  so-called  nineteenth  century  of 
ours'— and  it's  the  perfect  flower  of  the  century  too  ! 
If  the  Greeks  didn't  have  anything  like  New  York, 
now — so  much  the  worse  for  the  Greeks,  that's  all  !" 

"  New  York  is  certainly  very  impressive,"  Sartain 


50  A   CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW 

returned.     "I  begin  to  feel  as  though  I  were  nearer 
to  the  centre  of  things." 

"  Look  at  that !"  cried  the  artist,  paying  no  atten 
tion  to  this  remark  and  waving  his  hand  at  the  steam 
which  billowed  down  over  the  roof  of  a  tall  building. 
"There's  another  thing  the  Greeks  didn't  have  — 
steam !  And  it  is  absolutely  the  most  graceful,  poetic, 
fantastic,  various,  and  beautiful  thing  in  the  world  to 
day.  Look  at  that  wreath  of  white  cloud  as  it  curls 
along  ! — that's  worth  while,  isn't  it  ?" 

Sartain  thought  that  this  was  said  for  effect ;  but 
when  he  watched  the  rolling  vapor  to  which  the  artist 
drew  his  attention  and  saw  it  shot  through  with  the 
rays  of  the  setting  sun,  he  could  not  deny  that  it  was 
glorious ;  and  for  the  first  time  he  was  seized  by  a 
sense  of  the  beauty  inherent  in  modern  life. 

"Look  down  there  too!"  called  Adams  as  they 
crossed  a  side  street,  at  the  end  of  which  the  sun 
shone  through  bars  of  orange  and  tawny  brown  and 
dark  red.  "We  can  do  very  pretty  things  down  at 
the  ends  of  the  streets  when  we  try.  But  that's  mere 
Nature — and  Nature  is  never  as  fine  as  Art.  It  needs 
the  suggestion  of  man's  presence  to  make  the  land 
scape  really  sympathetic.  That's  why  the  puff  of 
steam  from  the  hidden  locomotive  seen  from  afar  in 
the  mountains  is  so  effective  ;  it  gives  the  friendly 
touch ;  it  strikes  the  human  note.  That's  the  sort  of 
thing  I  try  to  put  in  my  pictures — just  to  make  them 
sing  !" 

Sartain  listened  in  surprise.  He  had  no  longer  any 
doubt  as  to  the  artist's  sincerity,  even  if  he  thought 
he  detected  a  certain  exaggeration  of  manner. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  slowly,  "now  you  show  me,  I  can 


A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW  51 

sec  that  these  white  plumes  waving  over  the  heads  of 
the  tall  buildings  are  brave  and  beautiful.  But  don't 
you  think  the  Greeks  would  have  been  the  first  to  ad 
mit  that  if  they  could  have  seen  it  ?" 

"  It's  very  hard  to  be  fair  to  the  Greeks,"  the  artist 
returned  ;  "  they  painted  their  statues,  you  know  ; 
and  they  wore  straw  bonnets  tied  under  their  chins, 
like  hired  men  on  a  farm.  But  I  suppose  they  were 
keen  enough  to  know  a  good  thing  when  they  saw  it ; 
and  maybe  they  would  have  had  the  taste  to  appre 
ciate  steam  if  they  had  had  the  good-luck  to  have  it. 
But  then  they  didn't  have  it,  did  they  ?  And  we  do; 
that's  where  we  are  so  much  better  off  than  they  were 
— to  say  nothing  of  the  fact  we  are  alive  now,  and 
they  are  quite  dead,  all  of  them." 

As  they  walked  briskly  down  the  avenue  in  the  set 
tling  twilight  the  electric  lights  suddenly  blazed  up, 
and  their  path,  as  it  stretched  away  before  them,  was 
picked  out  in  dots  of  diamond. 

"There's  another  thing  the  Greeks  hadn't  —  the 
electric  light,"  Adams  broke  out  again.  "Indeed, 
their  greatest  deficiency  was  in  artificial  illumination. 
You  know  the  wretched  little  lamps  they  had  in  Pom 
peii  ? — feeble  things  a  man  couldn't  see  a  joke  by.  The 
fact  is,  the  Greeks  just  had  to  be  good  boys  and  go  to 
bed  with  the  little  birdies  and  get  up  with  the  early 
worms  ;  there  wasn't  anything  else  for  them  to  do." 

Sartain  admitted  that  in  many  ways  life  was  more 
agreeably  organized  now  than  it  could  have  been  in 
the  days  of  Demosthenes.  But  still,  had  not  the 
Greeks  a  perfect  sense  of  form,  and  is  not  form  the 
very  core  of  art  ?  He  thought  Goethe  had  said  some 
thing:  of  the  sort. 


52  A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW 

"  Goethe  was  a  Dutchman,  wasn't  he  ?"  asked 
Adams,  impatiently,  "and  what  does  an}7  Dutchman 
know  about  art  anyway  ?  But  I  don't  want  you  to 
think  I'm  going  back  on  the  Greeks,  for  I  wouldn't 
do  it.  Praxiteles  was  no  slouch  ;  I  know  that  well 
enough.  Still,  I'm  tired  of  hearing  them  cracked  up  by 
people  who  would  be  the  very  first  to  jump  on  them 
if  they  were  alive  to-day  !  And  we  are  not  fair  to 
ourselves  either,  for  we  judge  the  Greeks  by  their 
best  and  we  judge  the  men  of  our  own  time  by  their 
worst  —  or  at  least  by  their  average.  Now  I  think 
there  is  more  good  work  being  done  to-day  than  there 
ever  was  at  any  one  time  in  the  past." 

"In  Europe,  perhaps,"  Sartain  allowed;  "but  not 
here  in  America,  where  life  is  grimy  and  sordid  and 
material." 

"  Life  is  always  grimy  and  sordid  and  material,  if 
yon  stick  your  nose  into  the  dirt,"  Adams  retorted. 
"When  the  Greeks  had  a  symposium,  somebody  had 
to  wash  up  the  dishes  and  throw  out  the  slops.  I'm 
sick  of  having  people  talk  as  if  the  Greeks  lived  on 
nectar  and  ambrosia.  That  was  food  for  the  gods — 
and  the  Greeks  themselves  were  very  human." 

"Yes,"  Sartain  confessed,  "I  suppose  we  are  always 
prone  to  idealize  the  past." 

"And  that's  a  pity,  isn't  it,  since  we've  got  to  live  in 
the  present  ?"  Adams  asked.  "  To  a  live  man,  it's  his 
own  times  that  are  most  interesting.  If  a  man  has 
eyes  to  see,  he  can  find  lots  of  things  going  on  to-day 
right  in  New  York." 

"  Artistic  things  ?"  Sartain  queried,  a  little  doubt- 
fully. 

"  That's  what  I  mean,"  Adams  returned.     "  There's 


A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW  53 

a  big  boom  coming  in  art  here  in  America  very  soon. 
We  are  really  a  most  artistic  people ;  we  don't  know 
much  about  it  yet,  but  we've  got  the  tempera 
ment." 

"  Do  yon  really  think  so  ?"  Sartain  asked,  overpow 
ered  by  the  artist's  vehemence  and  yet  vibrating  to  his 
enthusiasm. 

"  I'm  sure  of  it,"  answered  Adams.  "  Why,  so  long 
as  I  couldn't  live  in  Athens  under  Pericles,  or  in  Flor 
ence  under  the  Medici,  I'd  rather  live  here  in  New 
York  now  !  The  pot  is  a-boiling  to-day,  and  I  only 
hope  I'll  live  long  enough  to  see  what  kind  of  a  dish 
it's  going  to  be." 

Sartain  was  not  accustomed  to  listen  to  conversation 
as  pyrotechnic  as  this.  He  wanted  time  to  turn  these 
startling  suggestions  over  in  his  mind. 

"  Speaking  of  pots  and  pans,"  Adams  continued, 
"here  in  New  York  you  can  get  a  civilized  dinner. 
I've  got  an  engagement  to-night,  or  I'd  blow  you  off  to 
one.  Tell  me  where  you  put  up,  and  I'll  come  around 
for  you  some  evening." 

Sartain  gave  him  his  address  in  Irving  Place,  and 
asked  the  artist  if  he  would  drop  in  some  night  at  six, 
and  share  his  boarding-house  fare. 

"First  time  I'm  over  the  limit  at  the  club  I'll  de 
scend  on  you,"  Adams  declared  ;  "and  you'll  be  sorry 
you  asked  me.  Hello  !  here's  Thirty-fourth  Street,  and 
I  must  tear  myself  away  from  you.  Your  conversation 
is  so  fascinating  I  hate  to  do  it ;  but  I  have  to,  if  I'm 
going  to  be  dressed  for  dinner.  Good-bye  !" 

And'  without  shaking  hands,  or  any  more  formal 
leave-taking,  Adams  turned  into  the  side-street,  leav 
ing  Sartain  to  continue  his  walk  down  the  avenue 


54  A   CONFIDENT  TO-MOIUtOW 

alone.  He  lingered  and  loitered  on  the  way,  and,  as  a 
result,  he  was  a  few  minutes  late  for  his  dinner. 

When  he  went  down  to  the  basement  he  heard  a  con 
fused  babble  of  voices  welling  forth  from  the  dining- 
room  ;  but  this  chatter  sank  as  he  appeared  in  the  door 
way.  Every  seat  was  occupied  save  one  between  the 
bicycle  young  man  and  the  yellow-haired  elocutionist ; 
and  everybody  promptly  stared  at  the  new-comer,  to 
Sartain's  intense  discomfort.  His  shyness  was  inter 
mittent,  and  sometimes  he  could  resist  the  attack  by  a 
resolute  effort ;  but  in  the  presence  of  all  these  men 
and  women,  well  acquainted  with  one  another,,  he  felt 
himself  a  stranger  ;  and  his  diffidence  was  now  intensi 
fied  by  the  sense  of  loneliness.  He  slipped  into  his 
chair  as  swiftly  as  he  could.  He  was  glad  when  Ket- 
tleton  greeted  him  cordially,  and  Avhen  Mr.  Wornum 
and  Miss  De  Lancey  bowed  to  him  elaborately. 

In  the  course  of  the  dinner  Kettleton  took  occasion 
to  introduce  the  new  -  comer  formally  to  the  various 
ladies  and  gentlemen  who  were  within  reach.  The  gen 
tlemen  asserted  that  they  were  glad  to  make  Mr.  Sar 
tain's  acquaintance,  and  the  ladies  declared  that  they 
were  pleased  to  meet  him. 

The  young  man  who  had  been  brought  up  in  Khode 
Island  and  who  had  been  living  in  Kansas  had  thought 
himself  to  be  wholly  free  from  snobbishness,  and  quite 
incapable  of  holding  one  person  better  than  another 
because  of  riches  or  education  or  social  advantages  of 
any  sort.  Yet  now  he  caught  himself  contrasting  the 
men  and  women  around  him,  as  they  ate  their  hasty 
dinner  in  the  crowded  and  semi -subterranean  base 
ment,  with  the  group  who  had  gathered  only  an  hour 
or  two  earlier  about  the  tea-table  in  Mr.  Vivian's  spa- 


A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW  55 

cious  drawing-room  with  its  broad  outlook  over  Central 
Park,  lie  had  come  East  ready  to  resent  wealth  and 
prompt  to  protest  against  all  social  inequalities.  He 
had  the  spirit  of  the  reformer  burning  ardently  with 
in  him  —  and  was  this  flame  to  be  blown  out  by  the 
opening  of  a  door  into  a  single  household  of  wealth  ? 

"With  thoughts  like  these  to  fill  his  mind,  he  had 
even  less  desire  than  usual  to  take  part  in  the  conver 
sation.  He  answered  when  one  or  another  spoke  to 
him  ;  but  otherwise  he  said  little,  and  he  hardly  even 
listened  to  the  talk  that  went  on  all  around  him.  Not 
loquacious  often,  he  was  now  even  more  taciturn  than 
usual.  When  dinner  was  at  an  end  he  rose  among 
the  first,  anxious  to  be  alone  in  his  own  room. 

As  he  went  out  of  the  door  the  pocket  of  his  coat 
chanced  to  catch  on  the  knob.  Thus  it  was  that,  al 
though  out  of  sight  of  those  still  in  the  dining-room, 
he  was  not  out  of  hearing. 

"  1  say,  Kettleton,"  he  heard  a  voice  declare,  "that 
new  friend  of  yours  is  a  regular  clam." 

"  He  don't  need  to  hire  a  hall,  he  don't,"  said  an 
other  voice. 

"Ah,  go  easy!"  the  bicycle  young  man  retorted. 
"He's  all  right!  Just  wait  till  he  gets  his  wind. 
He's  just  come  in  from  the  "West,  and  he  ain't  used  to 
Society  yet — see  ?" 

Once  in  his  little  hall  bedroom,  Sartain  felt  as 
though  he  were  once  more  his  own  master.  He  locked 
the  door  and  lighted  the  gas.  Then  he  went  to  his 
trunk  and  again  took  out  the  manuscript  of  his  novel. 

He  was  at  the  end  only  of  his  first  day  in  the  me 
tropolis,  and  already  his  ideas  about  the  city  had  been 
modified  in  more  ways  than  one.  He  foresaw  that  he 


56  A    CONFIDENT    TO-MORROW 

would  have  to  rewrite  several  passages  of  Dust  and 
Ashes ;  and  there  was  no  page  in  it  which  had  not 
been  written  two  or  three  times  already. 

Having  the  interlineated  leaves  in  his  hand,  he  read 
again  one  of  his  favorite  chapters,  lingering  over  it 
lovingly.  It  was  the  scene  in  which  the  hero,,  a  tele 
graph  -  operator,  who  was  also  an  advanced  thinker, 
threw  up  his  situation  in  the  headquarters  of  the  polit 
ical  party  with  which  he  had  hitherto  been  in  sym 
pathy,  because  he  was  sick  of  the  corruption,  the  in 
timidation,  and  the  fraud  he  was  called  upon  to  take 
part  in  as  the  transmitter  of  confidential  orders.  Al 
though  the  hero  was  heavily  in  debt,  for  money  lent 
secretly,  to  the  worthless  father  of  the  woman  he  loved, 
he  did  not  shrink  when  put  to  the  test ;  he  resigned 
his  salary  unhesitatingly  ;  and  he  took  occasion  to  tell 
the  veteran  politician  who  had  employed  him  what 
was  an  honest  man's  opinion  of  the  dastardly  prac 
tices  he  had  witnessed.  The  interview  between  the  old 
party  -  leader  and  the  young  telegraph  -  operator  took 
place  at  midnight,  while  the  echoes  of  a  most  spec 
tacular  torch-light  procession  still  rang  in  the  air.  As 
Sartaiu  silently  repeated  the  scorching  words  of  his 
hero,  he  could  not  withhold  his  own  approval,  and  he 
even  wished  that  he  could  have*  been  present  actually 
to  see  the  old  villain  cower  before  the  scorn  of  the 
honest  young  fellow. 

When  he  had  read  the  chapter  to  the  end  he  laid 
down  the  manuscript  to  light  a  cigar.  Then  he  vis 
ualized  the  picture  presented  when  he  followed  Mr. 
Vivian  into  the  parlor.  He  recalled  Cinderella  and 
the  Haughty  Sisters  as  they  posed  on  the  long,  low 
table.  He  felt  greatly  disgusted  that  he  had  not  been 


A    CONFIDENT    TO-M011KOW  57 

able  to  converse  with  the  girls  as  easily  as  with  their 
father.  His  cheek  burned  when  he  thought  how  he 
had  neglected  every  opportunity  to  compliment  Cin 
derella.  How  dull  she  must  have  deemed  him !  That 
he  should  have  seemed  stupid  to  Johnny  and  the  twins 
was  humiliating  enough  ;  but  that  he  should  have 
been  a  boor  before  Miss  Dircks  was  unpardonable. 
He  evoked  her  image,  her  slim  figure,  her  grace  of 
attitude,  her  thoughtful  expression,  her  broad  brow, 
her  deep  eyes,  and  her  sensitive  mouth.  She  floated 
before  him  in  a  vision  scarcely  human — almost  angelic. 
Then  he  went  back  to  the  few  words  they  had  inter 
changed  ;  he  made  up  the  pretty  speeches  he  ought  to 
have  said  to  her  that  afternoon ;  he  speculated  as  to 
the  way  she  would  have  received  them,  and  as  to  the 
responses  she  might  have  made. 

When  he  had  smoked  his  cigar  he  returned  to  his 
manuscript.  As  he  read  he  began  to  fear  that  his  her 
oine  was  altogether  too  shadowy  and  almost  unreal. 
The  woman  of  flesh  and  blood  was  far  more  fascinat 
ing  than  the  woman  of  his  own  inventing.  As  soon 
as  he  perceived  this,  he  asked  himself  why  it  should 
be  so.  He  catalogued  the  charms  he  had  bestowed 
upon  his  heroine,  and  he  tried  to  tabulate  the  reasons 
why  he  was  so  much  attracted  by  Miss  Dircks. 

It  pleased  him  to  let  his  thoughts  play  about  the 
fragile-looking  girl  he  had  met  that  afternoon  for  the 
first  time.  Though  he  strove  to  fix  his  mind  upon  his 
manuscript,  it  was  rebellious  and  refused  to  attach  it 
self,  insisting  on  its  right  to  roam  off  in  pursuit  of  her. 
He  wondered  what  she  was  doing  at  that  hour  of  the 
night,  and  where  she  was,  and  what  she  was  thinking 
about.  He  wished  that  he  knew  her  father,  and  could 


58  A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW 

thus  guess  at  her  home-life.  He  wanted  to  know  all 
about  her — not  only  about  her  father  and  her  friends, 
but  about  herself.  He  wanted  to  be  with  her.  In  a 
word,  he  wanted  her. 

Then,  in  an  illuminating  flash  of  passionate  desire, 
it  broke  upon  him — he  was  in  love  !  He  did  not  think 
of  denying  it,  for  he  saw  at  once  that  it  was  indispu 
table  ;  and  he  was  glad.  He  rejoiced  at  it  even.  It 
pleased  him  that  he  should  have  fallen  in  love  at  first 
sight,  even  as  Eomeo  did. 


CHAPTER  V 

IN"  the  next  few  days  Sartain  began  to  feel  his  foot 
ing  in  Xew  York  firm  beneath  him.  On  Sunday  after 
noon  lie  took  a  long  walk  in  Central  Park.  From  one 
of  the  knolls  at  the  southern  end  he  peered  up  at  the 
windows  of  the  apartment  -  house  where  the  Vivians 
lived.  He  wished  that  Esther  Dircks  might  be  calling 
again  on  the  twins,  and  that  she  would  look  out  of  the 
window  and  recognize  him  and  smile  down  graciously. 
The  distance  was  too  far  for  him  to  make  sure  of  her 
smile,  so  he  substituted  for  this  an  encouraging  wave 
of  her  hands.  Then  he  thought  how  fortunate  it 
would  be  for  him,  if,  while  she  was  gazing  down  at  him 
there,  a  little  child  should  fall  overboard  from  one  of 
the  boats  on  the  lake  below,  so  that  he  could  plunge  in 
and  rescue  it  and  restore  it  to  its  mother,  looking  up 
at  the  girl  in  the  window  so  that  she  might  know  that 
he  had  performed  this  deed  in  her  honor.  Perhaps  it 
would  be  better  if  Esther  herself  were  out  driving  with 
Johnny,  and  if  the  horses  should  take  fright,  and  rear 
and  plunge,  and  finally  bolt  past  the  bench  whereon 
he  was  sitting  with  a  book,  which  he  would  cast  aside 
just  in  time  to  clutch  the  frantic  steeds  by  the  bridle, 
saving  the  lives  of  the  two  girls  at  the  risk  of  his  own. 
After  these  flattering  visions  had  dramatized  them 
selves,  Sartain  almost  laughed  to  think  that  he  had 


60  A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW 

fancied  for  his  own  use  devices  so  stale  and  so  hope 
lessly  outworn  as  these — devices  he  would  never  have 
dared  to  put  into  a  novel. 

Then  as  he  turned  away  from  Fifty-ninth  Street 
and  resumed  his  walk,  it  occurred  to  him  all  at  once 
that  perhaps  he  was  too  late,  for  Esther  Dircks  might 
be  in  love  with  somebody  else.  He  had  no  right  really 
to  assume  that  he  was  the  first  man  to  be  struck  by 
her  exceeding  charm.  Perhaps  she  might  be  engaged 
already ;  and  as  this  dread  doubt  came  into  his  mind 
Sartain  stopped  short  and  stared  ahead  stupidly. 

Three  giggling  girls  passed  him,  and  one  of  them 
said,  "  Maybe  he's  in  love  !"  and  one  of  the  others  re 
turned,  "  Maybe  he's  eaten  something  !"  He  heard 
this  without  taking  in  the  meaning ;  and  then  all 
three  girls  laughed  again ;  and  it  was  only  a  minute 
later  he  perceived  that  it  was  at  him  they  were  laugh 
ing. 

He  started  to  walk  back  to  Irving  Place.  When  he 
turned  into  Fifth  Avenue  he  found  himself  greatly  in 
terested  in  the  difference  presented  between  the  ap 
pearance  by  that  distinguished  thoroughfare  on  Sun 
day  and  on  Saturday  afternoon.  He  thought  it  was 
gayer ;  there  were  more  people.  The  men  and  wom 
en  were  walking  leisurely ;  for  the  first  time  since 
his  arrival  Sartain  saw  New  Yorkers  who  Avere  not  in 
a  hurry.  They  seemed  to  him  also  to  be  very  well 
dressed — the  men  as  well  as  the  women. 

Perhaps  it  was  his  discovery  of  the  fact  that  he 
was  in  love,  and  perhaps  it  was  the  stylishness  of  the 
men  he  met  that  afternoon  on  the  avenue,  that  opened 
his  eyes  to  the  slovenliness  of  his  own  clothes.  He 
compared  himself  with  the  other  young  fellows  that 


A   CONFIDENT   TOMORROW  61 

afternoon,  much  to  his  own  disadvantage.  His  trou 
sers,  he  discovered,  were  not  only  without  the  care 
fully  preserved  crease  down  the  front  which  fashion 
prescribed,  but  they  were  also  baggy  at  the  knees. 
His  slouch  hat,  very  comfortable  to  the  head  as  it  was, 
was  altogether  out  of  season.  He  resolved  at  once 
to  get  a  new  suit  the  first  thing  Monday  morning, 
and  a  new  hat  also.  Fortunately  he  had  money  saved 
up  and  he  could  indulge  his  whim.  He  determined 
to  ask  Kettleton  where  he  ought  to  go  to  get  his  things. 

When  he  consulted  the  bicycle  young  man  that 
evening  after  tea,  while  they  were  smoking  their  ci 
gars  on  the  stoop  of  the  boarding  -  house  in  the  warm 
October  evening,  Mr.  Kettleton  was  prompt  with  advice. 

"You  want  to  go  to  Benton's,"  he  said — "Benton 
Brothers  &  Company,  in  Broadway,  near  Union  Square 
here ;  that's  where  you  want  to  go.  They  give  you  the 
best  value  for  your  money — see  ?  They  don't  sell  hand- 
me-downs,  fit-you-like-the-paper-on-the-wall,  Benton's 
don't ;  no,  sir.  Their  suits  are  just  as  toney  as  if  they 
was  custom-made  on  the  avenue ;  you  see  if  they  ain't. 
Why,  I've  met  club-men  coming  out  of  there — men 
whose  names  you'll  read  in  the  Four  Hundred  every 
week.  Say,  I'll  take  you  in  and  introduce  you  ;  the 
head  of  the  neckwear  department  is  a  great  friend  of 
mine  —  we  went  to  school  together  in  the  old  Sixth 
Ward.  But  I  can't  get  a  discount  for  you.  I  can't 
get  it  for  myself.  It's  a  square  game  at  Benton's — 
cash  down  and  everybody  treated  all  alike.  So  you 
don't  have  to  pay  more  than  the  Prince  of  Wales 
would,  if  he  was  to  come  over  in  a  hurry  and  go  in 
there  for  a  new  swallow-tail — see  ?" 

And  Mr.  Kettleton  was  as  good  as  his  word.     On 


62  A   CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW 

Monday  morning,  before  going  to  his  work,  he  es 
corted  Sartain  into  the  large  establishment  of  Benton 
Brothers  ,,&  Company,  and  he  aided  the  new-comer 
in  making  &  proper  selection.  As  the  suit  chosen 
fitted  without  alteration,  Sartain  kept  it  on  and  paid 
for  it. 

As  they  w^re  leaving  the  clothing -store  together, 
Kettleton  looked  into  a  tall  mirror  and  bade  Sartain 
do  the  same. 

"It's^a  daisy  fit,  that  suit  is,"  he  said,  "but  then 
you've  got  a  figure  for  clothes.  I  wish  I  had,  but  I'm 
too  thin/' 

Sartain  was  not  accustomed  to  consider  his  personal 
appearance  ;  and  it  may  have  been  this  casual  remark 
of  Kettleton's  which  caused  him  to  have  an  acute  con 
sciousness  of  his  new  clothes.  For  the  first  time  in  his 
life,  to  the  best  of  his  recollection,  he  felt  himself  to 
be  well  dressed.  It  was  almost  with  a  strut  of  self-sat 
isfaction  that  he  walked  from  Union  Square  to  the  tall 
building  in  which  Carington  &  Company  had  their 
offices.  He  was  so  keenly  aware  of  the  new  suit  that 
he  found  himself  examining  the  faces  of  the  people  he 
passed  to  see  if  they  were  also  noticing  it.  In  the  ele 
vator  going  up  he  stood,  rather  than  trust  the  immac 
ulate  cloth  upon  a  leather  seat  which  did  not  seem  to 
be  as  clean  as  it  might  be. 

But  all  thought  of  his  apparel  vanished  from  his 
mind  when  he  came  to  the  glass  door  on  which  was 
painted  the  name  of  "  Carington  &  Company,  Publish 
ers.  Eli  Low,  Manager."  It  was  not  without  trepi 
dation  that  he  entered  the  offices  where  he  had  been 
engaged  to  work  for  the  next  few  months. 

But  he  was  soon  set  at  ease  by  the  business-like  man- 


A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW  63 

ner  of  Mr.  Low,  who  bade  him  welcome  briefly,  and 
who  then  proceeded  succinctly  to  declare  the  exact  nat 
ure  of  the  task  Sartain  was  expected  to  accomplish, 
lie  was  to  have  his  own  little  room ;  and  there  was  a 
type -writer  whose  services  he  could  command  when 
need  be.  For  the  rest,  Mr.  Low  himself  would  be 
there  every  day ;  and  if  Mr.  Sartain  needed  any  fur 
ther  advice,  he  was  to  apply  for  it  when  it  was 
wanted. 

Before  the  end  of  his  first  week  Sartain  began  to 
doubt  whether  he  should  ever  understand  New  York. 
He  resented  its  self-satisfied  attitude,  its  air  of  calm 
superiority,  apparently  unaware  of  the  existence  of  any 
other  city  in  the  United  States,  its  absolute  freedom 
from  any  jealousy  of  its  would-be  rivals,  its  cold  con 
ceit  in  deeming  itself  so  exalted  that  competition  was 
out  of  the  question.  In  spite  of  the  semi-hostility  of 
his  attitude  when  he  came  to  town,  he  had  felt  at  once 
the  reserve  power  of  the  place,  its  irresistible  force,  its 
superb  vitality.  New  York  was  too  big,  too  noisy,  too 
ugly,  too  blatant ;  but,  for  all  that,  he  yielded  himself 
to  its  domination  inevitably. 

And  he  set  himself  to  study  the  city  as  though  it 
were  a  problem.  If  its  secret  could  be  rung  from  it  by 
a  resolute  determination  to  attain  all  possible  knowl 
edge,  then  Sartain  made  sure  that  in  good  time  he 
would  possess  himself  of  it.  He  found  there  was  but 
little  daylight  left  when  five  o'clock  came  and  his 
office-hours  were  over,  but  he  took  advantage  of  what 
time  there  was,  and  of  his  sixty  minutes'  nooning.  He 
went  for  long  walks  in  the  evening ;  and  once  he  got 
up  at  daybreak  to  see  the  markets.  His  unfriendli 
ness  faded  away  rapidly,  and  before  the  end  of  his  first 


64  A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW 

week  he  was  ready  to  acknowledge  that  Xew  York  had 
conquered  him. 

That  it  was  a  city  of  startling  contrasts  was  the  first 
result  of  his  investigation  ;  and  he  had  known  that  be 
fore.  Nowhere  else  in  the  world  were  the  extremes  of 
wealth  and  poverty  more  conspicuous.  Up-town,  near 
Central  Park,  there  were  half  a  dozen  houses  the  own 
ers  of  which  had  each  a  royal  income — indeed,  a  reve 
nue  the  half  of  which  more  than  one  actual  king  in 
Europe  would  be  very  glad  to  possess  ;  and  down-town, 
east  of  the  Bowery,  was  a  district  more  densely  inhab 
ited  than  any  part  of  the  most  congested  town  in  Eu 
rope.  Moral  contrasts  were  as  obvious  as  physical,  and 
they  arrested  Sartain's  attention  even  more  swiftly. 
Instances  of  ethical  destitution  and  squalor  he  could 
collect  at  will,  and  also  examples  of  lofty  austerity. 
He  was  told  one  day  of  a  religious  corporation  that 
owned  some  of  the  most  neglected  tenement-houses  in 
the  city,  and  that  even  went  to  law  to  resist  an  order  to 
make  these  wretched  dwellings  habitable ;  and  the  next 
night  he  heard,  casually,  that  one  of  the  most  noted 
of  the  very  wealthy  men  of  New  York  held  himself  to 
be  but  a  steward  of  his  own  riches,  not  only  distribu 
ting  his  means  with  cautious  liberality,  but  also  giving 
his  personal  service  on  obscure  committees  of  minor 
charitable  societies. 

Again  and  again,  during  his  first  week  in  New  York, 
Sartain  had  asked  himself  how  he  could  soonest  see 
the  girl  he  loved.  He  did  not  know  where  she  lived. 
It  was  at  the  Vivians'  he  had  met  her,  and  it  was  there 
only  that  he  could  hope  to  meet  her  once  more.  Mr. 
Vivian  had  kindly  bidden  him  to  come  in  for  a  cup  of 
tea  any  Saturday  afternoon ;  but  Sartain  was  afraid  it 


A   CONFIDENT  TO-MORROW  65 

might  seem  like  forwardness  if  he  were  to  take  ad 
vantage  of  this  invitation  for  the  very  first  day  that  it 
was  open. 

Even  after  he  had  had  his  luncheon  and  knew  that 
he  had  the  rest  of  the  afternoon  all  to  himself,  he 
was  still  undecided,  wavering  between  his  intense  de 
sire  to  see  her  and  his  unwillingness  to  appear  pushing. 
His  love  was  strong,  but  it  was  also  new,  while  his  shy 
ness  was  of  long  standing,  and  its  roots  were  deep 
down  in  him.  To  listen  to  the  chatter  of  the  twins 
and  to  shake  hands  heartily  with  Johnny  would  be  a 
fearful  pleasure  for  him;  he  would  enjoy  it,  no  doubt, 
but  he  shrank  from  it  timorously.  If  he  could  only 
make  sure  that  he  should  find  Esther  Dircks  at  the 
Vivians',  he  would  take  his  courage  in  both  hands  and 
go,  even  at  the  risk  of  seeming  obtrusive ;  but  there 
was  no  certainty  that  she  would  be  calling  at  the  very 
hour  he  called. 

In  this  condition  of  hesitancy  Sartain  brushed  his 
hair  very  carefully  and  combed  his  thin  brown  beard. 
For  the  first  time  in  his  life  his  personal  appearance 
began  to  interest  Sartain  seriously ;  and  he  had  taken 
to  reading  the  newspaper  articles  on  men's  fashions. 
His  habit  of  introspection  and  of  self -analysis  kept 
him  promptly  aware  of  this  new  development  of  his ; 
and  he  smiled  at  himself  as  he  glanced  in  the  glass  of 
the  hat-rack  in  the  lower  hall  of  the  boarding-house. 

When  he  came  out  in  the  street  the  sun  shone  down 
from  a  cloudless  sky,  and  the  day  was  resplendent  with 
the  golden  beauty  of  October.  The  tall  plumes  of 
steanf  waved  from  the  high  roofs  of  the  big  buildings. 
Adams's  eulogy  of  this  city  had  opened  his  eyes  to 
things  not.  seen  before.  His  realism  had  been  rather 


66  A    CONFIDENT   TO-MOKROW 

sordid,  and  he  had  looked  down  for  his  facts  rather 
than  up.  Now,  as  he  walked  up-toAvn,  he  hegan  to 
perceive  that  a  basis  of  truth  underlay  Adams's  ex 
travagance.  Sartain  was  ready  to  recognize  that  Xew 
York  had  at  times  and  in  places  a  violent  unkempt 
picturesqueness,  not  without  a  charm  of  its  own. 
Few  of  the  buildings  were  really  beautiful;  there  Avas 
so  much  high  color  as  to  produce  a  general  effect  of 
spottiness ;  there  was  no  repose  whatever.  Yet  the 
incessant  bustle  Avas  not  unpleasing  to  him,  and  the 
high  notes  did  not  jar  on  the  eye  of  a  young  man 
fresh  from  the  West.  As  a  Avhole,  the  city  Avas  in 
tensely  modern,  and  it  Avas  ever  vibrating  with  vital 
ity.  The  roar  that  rose  from  it  no  longer  smote  upon 
Sartain's  ears  as  the  shriek  of  a  Avild  beast ;  it  rang 
there  now  rather  as  a  paean  of  progress  ;  it  AATas  a  chant 
of  triumphant  Avork. 

When  he  came  to  the  book -stores  between  Four 
teenth  Street  and  TAventy-third  he  lingered  to  look 
in  their  AvindoAvs,  and  to  pick  out  the  fine  editions 
he  would  haAre  in  his  library  when  he  was  a  successful 
author  and  had  a  house  of  his  OAvn.  He  compared  the 
more  or  less  flamboyant  posters  which  called  attention 
to  popular  novels;  and  he  devised  one  for  Dust  and 
Ashes  Avhich  should  be  as  startling  as  any  of  these 
and  more  alluring. 

As  Sartain  Avent  on  up  Fifth  Avenue,  he  felt  again 
that  no  novelist  could  have  a  more  enticing  theme  or  a 
grander  than  to  reproduce  in  one  mighty  story  all  the 
immense  movement  of  human  life  in  the  metropolis  of 
the  New  World,  where  men  and  women  from  every  coun 
try  in  the  Old  World  Avere  mingled  together,  and  Avhere 
the  American  spirit  was  most  obvious  in  spite  of  the 


A   CONFIDENT  TO-MORROW  67 

presence  of  more  foreigners  than  in  any  other  city  of  the 
Union.  In  Dust  and  Ashes  Sartain  had  tried  to  show 
only  one  cross-section  of  city  life ;  he  had  confined  his 
attention  almost  entirely  to  the  villains  of  Wall  Street 
and  to  their  victims  ;  and  he  recognized  now  more 
than  ever  that  Wall  Street  was  not  all  of  New  York. 
In  the  week  since  his  arrival  from  Topeka  he  had  seen 
vista  after  vista  opening  before  his  vision ;  and  it 
seemed  to  him  that  there  was  no  end  to  the  points  of 
view  from  which  the  complexities  of  metropolitan  life 
could  be  surveyed. 

Then  it  was  that  Sartain  resolved  to  write  the  prose 
epic  of  the  great  city  ;  to  try  to  do  for  New  York 
what  Zola  had  done  for  France  ;  to  show  every  impor 
tant  aspect  of  the  metropolis  one  after  another ;  and 
to  relate  these  one  to  the  other,  so  that  while  the 
separate  parts  should  be  each  complete  in  itself,  the 
whole  should  also  have  a  unity  of  its  own  due  to  the 
harmonious  adjustment  of  its  division  and  to  its  own 
massive  structure.  He  began  at  once  to  plan  how  he 
could  incorporate  Dust  and  Ashes  in  this  larger  scheme, 
recalling  with  pleasure  the  fact  that  Balzac  had  not 
thought  of  the  Human  Comedy  until  after  he  had 
written  a  dozen  or  more  of  the  novels  he  afterwards 
wrought  into  his  grand  framework. 

Thus  engaged,  he  came  to  Central  Park ;  and  a  few 
minutes  later  he  rang  the  bell  of  Vivian's  apartment. 

The  neat  maid  with  the  white  cap  opened  the  door. 

"  Is  Mr.  Vivian  in  this  afternoon  ?"  Sartain  asked, 
confidently. 

"No;  sir/'  was  the  unexpected  response. 

"  He's  not  in  ?"  Sartain  said,  in  surprise. 

"  No,  sir,"  the  maid  answered.     Observing  the  de- 


68  A   CONFIDENT  TO-MORROW 

spondency  of  the  visitor's  face,  she  added:  "But  the 
young  ladies  are  at  home." 

Then  Sartain's  courage  failed  him. 

"I — I  wanted  to  see  Mr.  Vivian  very  particularly/' 
he  hesitated.  "But  I — I  haven't  time  this  afternoon 
to  call  on  the  young  ladies.  I — I  will  come  again." 
And  with  that  exhibition  of  sudden  shyness  he  turned 
away  and  rang  for  the  elevator. 

Five  minutes  later  he  regretted  what  he  had  done 
with  poignant  self-reproach,  for  he  passed  Miss  Esther 
Dircks  and  her  father,  to  whom  she  was  listening  de 
votedly. 

When  he  saw  them  Sartain  stopped  short,  hut  so 
intent  was  she  on  what  her  father  was  saying  that  she 
did  not  see  the  young  man.  Old  Dircks  flashed  a 
look  of  inquiry  from  under  his  bushy  eyebrows,  but 
Esther  did  not  remark  this.  They  had  passed  him  be 
fore  he  had  recovered  his  self-possession.  Then  it  was 
too  late.  He  could  not  run  after  the  girl  in  the  street. 
He  could  not  do  anything,  it  seemed  to  him  just  then, 
except  make  a  fool  of  himself.  He  wanted  to  gladden 
his  eyes  by  another  look  at  her.  He  turned  and  saw 
the  old  man  and  the  young  woman  go  up  the  steps  of 
the  Vivians'  apartment-house.  Then  he  walked  back 
to  Irving  Place  slowly,  abusing  himself  all  the  way 
down. 

That  evening,  just  as  he  was  finishing  his  dinner,  a 
letter  bearing  a  special-delivery  stamp  was  brought 
to  him.  He  did  not  recognize  the  handwriting,  and 
he  could  not  guess  who  it  was  that  should  be  thus  in 
haste  to  have  a  communication  reach  him. 

He  tore  it  open  and  found  that  it  was  from  Mr. 
Vivian,  regretting  that  he  had  been  out  that  afternoon, 


A   CONFIDENT  TO-HOBBOW  69 

and  so  deprived  of  the  pleasure  of  a  chat,  and  asking 
Sartain  if  he  would  care  to  go  to  the  next  meeting 
of  the  Contemporary  Club  011  Wednesday  evening  of 
the  following  week.  If  Sartain  would  answer  at  once 
in  the  affirmative,  Vivian  would  see  that  an  invitation 
was  sent  on  Monday. 

Sartain  rushed  up-stairs,  got  out  a  postal-card,  and 
wrote  to  Mr.  Vivian,  accepting  with  great  pleasure  and 
expressing  his  thanks.  He  went  out  and  posted  this 
at  the  corner.  As  he  came  back  to  the  boarding-house 
lie  remembered  that  the  next  day  was  Sunday,  and  that 
he  could  have  taken  time  to  write  a  more  formal  reply, 
since,  in  any  event,  Mr.  Vivian  would  not  receive  it 
before  Monday  morning. 


CHAPTER  VI 

SARTAIN"  carefully  studied  the  card  of  invitation  of 
the  Contemporary  Club,  and  he  found  in  one  corner : 

Evening  Dress.     Ladies  will  please  not  wear  bonnets. 

He  took  out  his  dress-suit,  which  he  had  not  put  on 
half  a  dozen  times  since  the  last  concert  of  the  college 
glee  club,  but  it  seemed  to  him  in  good  condition  still. 
He  debated  long  whether  he  should  wear  a  white  tie 
or  a  black  one.  Finally,  when  Wednesday  came  and 
he  dressed  before  dinner,  he  decided  in  favor  of  white. 

He  went  down  to  the  basement  of  the  boarding- 
house,  conscious  that  he  looked  better  in  the  dress- 
suit  than  in  his  cutaway,  and  pleased  with  this  con 
sciousness.  The  tying  of  his  white  cravat  had  taken 
time,  and  he  was  a  little  late  for  dinner. 

"  Got  'em  all  on,  haven't  you  ?"  Kettleton  asked, 
with  friendly  interest.  ""What  is  it  you're  going  to 
take  in  to-night — the  Patriarchs?  It's  too  soon  for 
the  French  ball  or  the  Arion." 

Sartain  said  that  he  was  going  to  the  meeting  of  the 
Contemporary  Club  ;  and  then,  as  Kettleton  had  never 
heard  of  this  organization,  he  had  to  explain  what  it 
was.  Miss  De  Lancey  came  to  his  assistance,  inform 
ing  the  other  boarders  that  she  herself  had  once  been 
asked  to  read  a  paper  before  that  club,  on  "Elocu- 


A   CONFIDENT   TO-MOEROW  71 

tion,  a  Necessity  of  Modern  Civilization/'  but  that  she 
had  had  an  attack  of  bronchitis,  which  prevented  her 
from  delivering  her  address. 

Most  of  the  conversation  during  the  dinner  was  de 
voted  to  clubs  and  to  Society  and  to  fashionable  fads. 
It  struck  Sartain  that  his  going  to  the  Contemporary 
Club  in  a  dress-suit  had  raised  him  in  the  estimation 
of  his  fellow-boarders.  Again  it  amused  him  to  liken 
himself  to  Rastignac  setting  forth  from  the  humble 
Maison  Vauquier  to  the  most  aristocratic  entertain 
ments  in  Paris. 

When  Sartain  entered  the  building  where  the  club 
was  to  meet  it  was  just  eight  o'clock,  and  carriage 
was  following  carriage  to  the  door.  He  gave  up  his 
ticket,  and  was  directed  to  a  dressing-room  in  which 
two  or  three  attendants  were  waiting  to  take  his  hat 
and  overcoat.  Then  he  looked  himself  over  in  the 
glass  in  the  dressing-room,  and  curled  the  ends  of  his 
mustache,  smiling  tolerantly  at  his  own  fatuity,  since 
he  could  see  other  men  all  around  him  wearing  dress- 
suits  with  complete  unconcern.  He  tightened  his 
white  tie  and  went  into  the  corridor. 

There  he  heard  the  monotonous  voice  of  the  man 
who  was  calling  out  the  names  of  the  guests  that 
pressed  forward  two  by  two.  Sartain  took  his  place 
in  the  column,  and  after  the  crier  had  announced 
"  Mr.  and  Mrs.  'Enry  'Arris,"  he  found  himself  in  the 
doorway  of  the  reception-room.  He  gave  his  name, 
and  heard  it  bawled  forth,  "  Mr,  Frank  Sartain  !" 
Then  he  saw  he  was  in  the  presence  of  five  ladies  in 
evening  dress,  standing  in  a  row,  and  all  bowing  to  the 
new-comers. 

Sartain   bowed  also,  and  walked  on,  not  knowing 


72  A   CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW 

what  he  was  expected  to  do  next.  He  looked  about, 
hoping  to  descry  Mr.  Vivian,  and  longing  to  catch  a 
glimpse  of  Esther  Dircks,  if  by  good-fortune  she  were 
present.  But  he  saw  nobody  that  he  knew  in  the  re 
ception-room,  and  he  discovered  that  the  guests  wero 
passing  through  to  the  adjoining  ballroom.  This  was 
spacious,  and  filled  with  camp-chairs  ;  there  was  a 
small  platform  at  one  side,  with  a  table,  half  a  dozen 
arm-chairs,  and  three  or  four  tall  palms  in  pots.  While 
he  was  trying  to  select  an  inconspicuous  seat,  he  heard 
the  crier  behind  him  call  out,  "  Mr.  Dircks  !  Miss 
Dircks  !" 

Sartain  turned  back  at  once  and  resolved  to  inter 
cept  them.  He  beheld  Dircks  stare  with  surprise  at 
the  ladies  receiving,  and  then  acknowledge  their  bows 
with  what  was  little  better  than  a  nod.  He  saw  Esther 
courtesy  most  gracefully  ;  and  he  was  dimly  aware  that 
she  was  clad  in  some  light  blue  stuff^  which  made  her 
more  vaporous  than  ever.  He  felt  that  at  last  he  had 
a  chance  to  push  his  acquaintance  with  her,  and  he 
stepped  forward  to  meet  them.  His  heart  beat  fast, 
but  he  conquered  his  timidity  by  a  violent  effort  of 
the  will.  He  wondered  even  if  she  would  recognize 
him,  since  they  had  met  but  once. 

As  she  drew  near  him  she  looked  up  and  caught  his 
eye. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Sartain  !"  she  said,  smiling.  "  I  thought 
we  should  see  you  here  this  evening.  Johnny  told  me 
her  father  had  sent  you  a  card.  He  gave  us  ours,  too." 

"  It  was  very  kind  of  him,"  was  all  that  Sartain  could 
find  words  to  say,  ill  at  ease  again  in  the  presence  of 
the  one  woman  before  whom  he  wished  always  to  ap 
pear  at  his  best. 


IX   TIIR   PKESEXCE   OF   THE   ONE   WOMAN 


A   CONFIDENT  TO-MORROW  73 

The  girl  did  not  seem  to  be  conscious  of  his  embar 
rassment.  She  turned  to  her  father,  who  had  stood 
silently  a  little  behind  her,  gazing  intently  at  the  young 
man  from  under  his  shaggy  eyebrows. 

"  Father/'  she  said,  "  this  is  Mr.  Sartain,  whom  I  met 
at  Mr.  Vivian's  a  week  or  two  ago." 

"  I've  seen  you  somewhere,  I  think ;  haven't  I  ?" 
asked  Mr.  Dircks,  in  a  deep,  mellow  voice,  holding  out 
his  ungloved  hand ;  "  coming  out  of  Mr.  Vivian's  about 
a  week  ago  ?" 

The  young  man  explained  that  he  had  passed  Mr. 
Dircks  twice,  once  in  Mr.  Vivian's  apartment -house, 
and  once  just  outside  its  door.  Then  the  elder  man 
released  his  hand,  saying,  "I  knew  I'd  seen  you  some- 
whercs  or  other." 

Sartain  was  greatly  interested  in  Esther's  father, 
partly  because  he  was  her  father  and  partly  because 
the  man  himself  was  unconventional.  The  young  fel 
low  thought  how  well  the  name  Raphael  Dircks  fitted 
the  old  man,  incongruous  as  were  the  suavity  of  the 
Christian  name  and  the  sharpness  of  the  patronymic. 
"Raphael"  suggesting  something  child-like,  innocent, 
ignorant  of  the  world,  as  Esther's  father  appeared  to 
be ;  and  "Dircks"  was  tense  and  piercing,  as  the  old 
man  seemed  to  be  also  when  he  raised  his  bushy  eye 
brows  and  transfixed  Sartain  with  a  glance. 

It  was  Esther  who  broke  the  silence  with  a  little 
laugh.  "Well,  why  are  we  all  standing  here?"  she 
asked.  "I'm  afraid  all  the  best  seats  will  be  gone, 
and  I  Avant  father  to  have  a  good  one,  for  he  likes  to 
hear  every  word.  Isn't  the  room  filling  up,  Mr.  Sar- 
taiii  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  the  young  man  answered,  as  they 


74  A  CONFIDENT  TO-MOBBOW 

entered  the  ballroom.  "  I  didn't  look — that  is,  I  was 
looking  when  I  heard  your  names  announced,  and  I— 
and  I — "  Here  he  broke  off  inconsequently. 

"I  think  we  had  better  try  to  get  on  the  centre 
aisle — don't  you,  father ?"  the  girl  continued.  "Per 
haps  we  can  find  three  places  together,  and  Mr.  Sartain 
can  sit  with  us." 

"I  shall  be  delighted/' Sartain  answered;  "that's 
exactly  what  I  was  hop — 

"  Here  are  two  seats,"  interrupted  Dircks. 

"  Then  you  and  Mr.  Sartain  can  have  them,"  Esther 
returned,  "and  I  will  take  this  one  just  behind  you." 

The  young  man  protested  at  once.  He  could  not 
think  of  separating  father  and  daughter.  He  begged 
that  he  might  be  allowed  to  take  the  single  chair  be 
hind. 

"  Oh,  very  well,  then,"  she  returned,  "  if  you  in 
sist,"  and  with  that  she  passed  in  and  left  the  seat 
on  the  aisle  for  her  father.  "  Only  I  thought  that 
perhaps  you  two  would  know  so  much  more  about 
what  they  are  going  to  discuss  here  to  -  night  that 
you  might  like  to  talk  it  over  together,  and  I  could 
listen." 

So  saying,  she  arranged  herself  on  the  seat,  and  her 
father  took  the  chair  next.  Sartain  sat  down  behind 
the  old  man,  and,  to  his  delight,  he  discovered  that  he 
could  talk  to  her  almost  as  well  as  if  he  were  by  her 
side,  while  he  could  look  at  her  far  more  easily. 

When  they  were  settled  she  glanced  back  at  him 
and  said,  "  You  see,  Mr.  Sartain,  I  don't  know  any 
thing  at  all  about  politics,  and  father  is  awfully  inter 
ested  in  them.  Sometimes  he  tries  to  talk  to  me  about 
them ;  but  it's  not  a  bit  of  good — I  never  can  under- 


A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW  75 

stand  them.  I'm  very  glad  I  haven't  a  vote,  for  I 
should  never  know  what  to  do  with  it." 

Her  voice  fell  on  Sartain's  ears  like  exquisite  music, 
and  her  face  rose  above  the  light  blue  of  her  dress 
like  some  rare  flower,  delicate  and  priceless.  He  had 
hitherto  been  inclined  to  approve  of  woman-suffrage  ; 
but  since  she  did  not  want  the  ballot,  he  110  longer  saw 
the  necessity  of  forcing  it  upon  the  sex. 

"  Perhaps  it  would  not  be  fair  to  insist  on  a  wom 
an's  going  to  the  polls,"  he  declared.  Then  his  hon 
esty  compelled  him  to  add,  "  But  there  are  many  noble 
women  who  want  the  ballot,  and  it  is  not  easy  to  re 
fuse  them,  is  it  ?" 

"  It  would  be  horrid  to  make  us  vote  if  we  didn't 
want  to,  wouldn't  it  ?"  the  girl  returned,  lightly. 
"They  couldn't  do  that,  could  they?" 

"  I  should  call  it  a  most  high-handed  proceeding'  if 
they  did,"  Sartain  agreed,  smiling  back  at  her. 

Here  Mr.  Dircks  turned  himself  around  in  his  seat 
and  said,  "  I  don't  see  as  a  woman  has  any  more  use 
for  a  vote  than  a  pig  has  for  a  ring  in  his  nose.  A 
ward -meeting  over  a  bar-room  ain't  any  place  for  a 
woman." 

Thus  appealed  to,  Sartain  agreed  again.  "  I  suppose 
that  politics  is  often  a  dirty  business  at  best — and  per 
haps  women  are  better  off  out  of  it." 

"  That's  what  I  think,"  Dircks  declared,  and  then 
he  sank  back  into  silence.  He  struck  Sartain  as  a 
man  not  prone  to  conversation,  and  with  difficulty 
rinding  words  to  express  himself.  Even  if  Dircks's 
manner  was  a  little  gruff,  the  brusqueness  was  ap 
parent  only ;  it  was  not  intentional ;  and  there  was 
true  kindliness  underneath  it.  But  no  weakness  was 


76  A    COXFIDEXT   TO-MORROW 

visible  in  the  old  man's  countenance.  From  the  father 
it  was  that  the  daughter  derived  her  broad  brow  and 
her  resolute  mouth. 

The  girl  seemed  to  feel  that  it  was  her  duty  to  en 
tertain  the  young  man,  and  she  turned  back  to  him 
again,  and  asked,  "  Have  you  seen  Johnny  yet  ?  She 
said  she  was  coming  with  her  father.  You  know  Dora 
and  Theo  never  come  to  the  Contemporary  ;  they  say 
it's  slow  and  poky  !  Now  I  don't  think  it  is,  do  you  ? 
Even  if  I  don't  understand  the  speeches  always,  it  is 
lots  of  fun  to  watch  the  people." 

"  This  is  the  first  time  I've  been  to  one  of  the  meet 
ings,"  Sartain  responded.  "You  see,  I  haven't  ever 
been  to  New  York  before  to  stay." 

"Why,  of  course  not!"  the  girl  returned,  "you  are 
from  the  West,  aren't  you  ?  I  should  think  you  would 
find  New  York  so  strange  after  the  prairies  and  all 
that !" 

Sartain  was  delighted  with  the  ease  of  her  manner 
and  with  the  frankness  of  her  speech.  She  made  him 
feel  almost  as  though  he  were  already  an  old  friend  of 
hers.  His  shyness  was  in  abeyance  as  long  as  he  was 
under  the  spell  of  her  voice. 

"Oh,  there's  Johnny,"  she  cried,  "and  Mr.  'Vivian, 
too !"  and  she  waved  her  hand  at  two  figures  standing 
in  the  arch  of  the  reception-room. 

The  young  man  followed  her  eyes,  and  saw  Mr. 
Vivian  and  Mr.  Vivian's  eldest  daughter.  With  his 
masculine  susceptibility  to  the  effect  of  dress  Sartain 
was  struck  by  the  improvement  in  Johnny's  appear 
ance.  There  was  still  a  suggestion  of  the  mannish  in 
her  handsome  evening  gown,  but  the  lace  at  the  open 
throat  softened  the  severity  she  chose  to  affect. 


A    CONFIDENT    TO-MORROW  77 

"  They  don't  sec  us,"  said  Esther  Dircks,  as  the 
Vivians  turned  up  the  aisle  nearest  to  the  entrance. 
"Isn't  it  a  pity  ?  I'd  love  to  have  Johnny  here — and 
then  you  and  father  could  talk  over  the  speeches  with 
Mr.  Vivian,  couldn't  you  ?" 

This  time  Sartain  was  able  to  find  a  form  of  words 
to  express  his  perfect  satisfaction  with  his  position  as 
it  was. 

"  That's  very  pretty  indeed,"  the  girl  responded,  with 
the  brilliant  smile  that  lighted  her  face  and  transfigured 
it.  "  But  you  can't  talk  to  me  much  longer,,  for  there 
come  all  the  lady  vice-presidents." 

"The  lady  vice-presidents  ?"  Sartain  queried. 

"  They  were  receiving,"  she  explained  ;  "  the  ladies 
who  stood  in  a  line  at  the  door,  you  know.  When  al 
most  everybody  has  come,  the  gentlemen  go  and  es 
cort  them  to  the  first  row  there — don't  you  see  all  the 
chairs  in  front  are  reserved  ? — so  they  get  the  best 
seats  ;  and  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  they  were  glad  enough 
to  sit  down  after  standing  out  there  so  long  and  having 
to  bow  to  all  sorts  of  old  frumps." 

While  Esther  Dircks  was  speaking,  Sartain  was 
watching  a  procession  which  passed  from  the  recep 
tion-room  down  one  of  the  aisles  between  the  serried 
chairs  in  the  ballroom.  The  five  ladies  who  had  re 
ceived  advanced  each  on  the  arm  of  a  gentleman,  who 
gave,  her  one  of  the  reserved  scats  on  the  front  row, 
taking  his  place  beside  her.  Behind  these  couples 
came  the  two  speakers  of  the  evening.  They  had  to 
pause  in  the  aisle  while  the  ladies  selected  their  seats 
and  adjusted  their  skirts.  Then  the  president  led 
them  to  the  platform,  and  they  all  sat  down  in  the 
comfortable  arm-chairs.  Soon  the  president  rose  to 


78  A   COXFIDEXT   TO-MORROW 

his  feet  and  transferred  a  tray  with  a  pitcher  of  iced 
water  and  three  or  four  glasses  from  a  table  at  the 
back  to  one  in  the  front  of  the  little  stage.  Having 
done  this  he  stood  behind  this  front  table  and  sur 
veyed  the  audience  calmly.  Sartain  envied  the  com 
posure  with  which  he  could  stand  there  doing  nothing 
without  embarrassment. 

After  waiting  perhaps  a  minute,  the  president  gave 
half  a  dozen  light  taps  with  a  gavel  that  lay  ready  to 
his  hand  on  the  little  table,  and  immediately  all  con 
versation  died  down.  Then,  in  fluent  words,  he  wel 
comed  the  members  of  the  club  and  their  guests  to 
the  first  meeting  of  the  season.  He  outlined  the  pro 
gramme  for  the  winter,  and  announced  that  the  sub 
ject  of  the  opening  debate  was  "  The  Problem  of 
Modern  Society."  As  the  first  speaker,  he  had  great 
pleasure  in  introducing  the  celebrated  scientific  an 
archist,  Herr  Adolph  Kreutzner,  who  would  expound 
the  extremely  radical  view. 

There  was  applause  when  the  president  sat  down 
and  a  thin  little  middle-aged  man  of  mild  appearance 
rose  and  stepped  to  the  edge  of  the  platform.  His 
black  hair  was  cut  short  and  his  black  beard  was 
closely  trimmed.  He  began  with  an  apology  for  his 
English — and  his  accent  and  the  rhythm  of  his  de 
livery  were  most  unmistakably  German.  But  his  vo 
cabulary  was  ample  and  his  grammar  was  adequate,  and 
be  spoke  clearly  and  distinctly,  even  if  monotonously. 
Sartain  soon  perceived  that  the  German  was  absolutely 
devoid  of  humor,  that  he  took  himself  and  his  mission 
very  seriously,  and  that  he  was  almost  passionless. 

While  listening  to  the  opening  remarks  of  the  scien 
tific  anarchist,  Sartaiu  found  that  his  eyes  kept  re- 


A   CONFIDENT  TO-MORROW  79 

turning  to  the  girl  who  sat  almost  in  front  of  him,  and 
who  seemed  to  him  far  more  charming  than  any  other 
woman  in  the  room.  He  was  glad  that  he  was  so 
placed  that  he  could  stare  at  her  without  rudeness ; 
and  yet  once,  at  least,  he  feared  that  the  fixity  of  his 
gaze  might  have  made  her  uncomfortable,  for  a  gentle 
blush  rose  in  her  cheek  and  neck  and  died  away  only 
as  she  glanced  back  at  him  with  a  little  smile.  Her 
ashen  hair  shone  under  the  glitter  of  the  electric 
lights  like  an  alloy  of  silver  and  gold;  there  was  one 
wisp  of  it  that  would  not  stay  in  its  place,  and  that 
she  tried  to  put  back  again  with  an  unconscious  gest 
ure — girlish  and  captivating. 

In  the  meantime  the  lecturer  had  been  pursuing 
his  argument.  He  had  shown  that  monarchy,  aris 
tocracy,  parliamentarism,  democracy,  and  socialism 
were  necessary  stages  in  the  evolution  of  human  so 
ciety.  Socialism,  like  democracy  now,  like  parlia 
mentarism  in  the  past,  is  a  step  in  advance,  no  doubt, 
but  it  is  not  the  final  goal.  It  is  only  a  mitigated 
communism.  It  is  imperfect  and  incomplete  in  that 
it  allows  government  to  exist.  If  he  governs  best  who 
governs  least,  then  anarchy  is  obviously  the  best  form 
of  government.  Under  anarchy  man  is  free  to  de 
velop  his  own  individuality  absolutely.  He  is  re 
leased  from  all  control.  He  is  left  to  the  guidance  of 
his  own  benevolent  instincts  unperverfced  by  mislead 
ing  education.  Under  anarchy  there  will  be  no  privi 
leges  and  no  private  property  and  no  public  property. 
All  men  will  be  equal  in  all  ways,  entering  freely  and 
gladly  into  voluntary  associations  for  co  -  operative 
works,  every  man  taking  orders  only  from  himself, 
and  doing  willingly  that  part  of  the  labor  for  which 


80  A   CONFIDENT  TO-MORROW 

he  knows  himself  to  be  best  fitted.  Every  man  will 
be  encouraged  to  round  out  his  own  character  to  the 
perfect  sphere.  Evil  passions  will  inevitably  be  elimi 
nated,  since  they  are  only  the  result  of  want,  of  envy, 
and  injustice,  and  must  therefore  disappear  complete 
ly  with  the  conditions  that  caused  them.  With  the 
abolition  of  private  property  there  disappears  all  pre 
tence  of  any  necessity  for  policemen,  for  police  courts, 
for  judges,  and  for  lawyers.  With  the  abolition  of  gov 
ernment  the  idea  of  nationality  vanishes,  and  the  sol 
diers  will  be  released  from  destructive  work  to  do  their 
share  of  production ;  and  so  the  lawyers  will  be,  and 
the  judges  and  the  policemen  and  the  jailers.  With 
the  extinction  of  these  noxious  parasites  the  hours  of 
labor  for  any  one  individual  need  be  but  few,  and  only 
enough  to  keep  him  in  perfect  physical  condition.  As 
physiology  has  shown  us  that  the  highest  pleasure 
comes  from  the  exercise  of  our  natural  functions,  every 
man  will  rejoice  to  do  that  part  of  the  common  task 
in  the  doing  of  which  he  is  the  most  dexterous ;  and 
as  he  is  working  also  for  his  own  satisfaction,  he  will 
produce  abundantly  for  the  needs  of  the  public  with 
out  effort  or  fatigue  or  strain  to  himself. 

With  a  stiff  and  military  bow  Herr  Kreutzner  made 
an  end  of  speaking.  There  was  generous  applause, 
although  Sartain  suspected  that  it  lacked  warmth.  A 
rattle  of  conversation  started  at  once  all  over  the  hull. 

Esther  Dircks  turned  back  and  asked  Sartain  what 
he  thought. 

"  I've  been  used  to  supposing  that  I  was  pretty  radi 
cal  myself,"  the  young  man  answered;  "I'm  a  free 
trader  and  a  single  taxer,  and  so  on,  but  I  can't  go 
as  far  as  he  does,  can  vou  ?" 


A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW  81 

"Oh,  I  don't  pretend  to  know  anything  about  it/' 
she  responded.  "I  haven't  a  masculine  mind,  you 
know.  But  it  does  seem  a  shame  that  something  can't 
be  done  about  the  tenements  and  the  men  out  of  work, 
doesn't  it  ?  Perhaps  it  would  be  going  too  far  not  to 
have  any  government  at  all — and  I  don't  see  how  that 
would  help  the  poor,  either." 

Here  the  girl's  father  turned  his  large  frame  and 
broke  into  the  conversation.  "  He  don't  go  far  enough, 
that  Dutchman  don't,"  Dircks  declared.  "He's  too 
mild.  We  can't  get  along  without  policemen,  either — 
we  Avant  them  to  jail  the  rascals  in  Wall  Street — only 
I'd  rather  see  some  of  them  shot  !  Why,  I— 

At  this  moment  the  president  of  the  club  was  heard 
rapping  again  for  silence,  and  all  conversation  ceased. 
In  the  same  flowing  rhetoric  he  presented  the  second 
speaker,  Mr.  Arnold  Gillingham,  the  editor  of  the  Wall 
Street  Standard. 

Mr.  Gillingham  was  undersized  and  underbred.  But 
those  who  Avere  offended  by  his  rasping  voice  and  by  his 
domineering  gestures  could  not  but  admit  the  ability 
with  which  he  presented  his  unwelcome  views.  He 
began  by  saying  that  he  would  detain  the  members  of 
the  Contemporary  Club  but  a  short  time,  as  he  could 
not  pay  them  the  poor  compliment  of  thinking  that 
they  were  imposed  upon  by  such  shallow  sophistries 
as  they  had  been  forced  to  listen  to  that  evening.  He 
confessed  that  he  had  neither  respect  nor  toleration 
for  professional  agitators,  who  are  revolutionists  for 
revenue  only  ;  and  he  did  not  know  which  is  the  more 
detestable,  the  dress-coat  dynamiter  or  the  parlor  social 
ist.  The  real  leaders  of  reform  have  always  been  men 
willing  to  make  every  sacrifice — of  place,  of  money,  and, 


82  A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW 

if  need  be,  of  life  itself.  The  professional  agitator, 
who  goes  comfortably  from  drawing-room  to  drawing- 
room  dealing  out  the  doctrine  of  discontent  and  riot 
and  rapine  and  murder,  is  risking  nothing — nothing 
but  his  digestion.  The  only  sacrifice  he  is  ready  to 
make  is  like  the  one  proposed  by  Artemus  Ward — the 
sacrifice  of  his  wife's  relations. 

Mr.  Gillingham  went  on  to  declare  that  the  German 
gentleman  had  been  right  in  saying  that  his  beatific 
vision  of  anarchy  would  be  the  millennium.  It  would 
not  come  to  pass  till  all  the  ordinary  men  and  women 
in  the  world  had  died  off  and  the  globe  was  repeopled 
with  angels.  The  policeman  and  the  judge  and  the 
soldier  are  the  buttresses  of  civilization  ;  they  are  the 
forces  that  keep  the  appetites  of  man  in  check  and 
under  control.  As  Aristotle  told  us  two  thousand 
years  ago  and  more,  there  is  no  end  of  talk  about 
equalizing  our  riches,  while  what  is  urgent  is  to  equal 
ize  our  desires.  And  Heine  reminded  us  half  a  cen 
tury  ago  that  communism  made  its  appeal  in  a  lan 
guage  understood  by  all  the  peoples  of  the  earth,  and 
that  the  elements  of  this  universal  language  were  as 
simple  as  hunger  and  envy  and  death — all  easy  enough 
to  learn.  If  you  persist  in  talking  about  the  irrepressi 
ble  conflict  between  the  classes  and  the  masses — that 
is,  between  those  who  have  and  those  who  haven't — 
you  are  really  exciting  to  riot.  If  you  keep  telling 
men  that  the  bloody  conflict  is  bound  to  come  sooner 
or  later,  they  are  the  quicker  to  act  now ;  they  want 
to  get  at  the  fighting  and  have  it  over,  and  enjoy  the 
spoils  of  Avar.  That  is  what  the  parlor  socialist  and 
the  dress-coat  dynamiter  are  doing — they  are  making 
it  necessary  for  the  forces  that  stand  for  law  and  order 


A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW  83 

to  get  ready  to  sweep  the  streets  with  the  gatling-guns 
of  the  regular  army.  And  whenever  that  kind  of  street- 
cleaning  is  to  take  place,  it  will  be  best  for  those  who 
are  on  the  side  of  the  broom  and  worst  for  those  who 
are  swept  into  the  gutter — for  the  gutter  will  run  with 
blood. 

So  vehement  was  the  manner  of  Mr.  Gillingham 
that  the  applause  broke  forth  heartily  when  he  sat 
down,  even  though  his  personality  was  repugnant  to 
many. 

The  president  asked  Herr  Kreutzner  if  he  wished 
to  make  any  rejoinder  ;  and  the  calm  German  an 
swered,  courteously,  that  he  saw  no  necessity  for  so 
doing,  as  the  logic  of  his  position  had  not  been  as 
sailed. 

Thereupon  the  president  announced,  humorously, 
that  the  feast  of  reason  and  the  flow  of  soul  had  come 
to  an  end,  and  that  the  guests  of  the  club  would  find  in 
the  reception-room  adjoining  a  flow  of  coffee  and  feast 
of  cakes. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  chairs  were  pushed  back  and  disarranged  as 
people  pressed  towards  the  room  where  the  refresh 
ments  were. 

"  Gillingham  just  gave  it  to  that  nihilist,  didn't 
he  ?"  Sartain  heard  one  voice  ask ;  and  another  an 
swered,  "That's  so.  Sharp  as  a  steel-trap,  isn't  he?" 

Dircks  overheard  this  also.  His  face  was  flushed 
with  the  excitement  of  the  debate  and  his  black  eyes 
were  fiery  under  his  fierce  eyebrows.  He  was  forging 
ahead  of  his  daughter  and  Sartain,  who  followed  in  his 
wake  as  he  thrust  the  chairs  right  and  left  out  of  his 
way.  Now  he  slowed  up  a  little  and  spoke  over  his 
shoulder  to  Sartain,  who  was  close  behind  him.  "  Gil 
lingham  ?"  he  said,  taking  no  pains  to  lower  his  voice, 
"is  that  the  little  fellow's  name  ?  Well, he's  a  skunk, 
that's  what  he  is  !  And  I'll  tell  him  so  if  I  get  a 
chance  to-night.  He's  a  liar,  too  !" 

Sartain  looked  about  to  see  if  any  one  had  heard  this 
unconventional  outbreak,  but  he  saw  no  reason  to  sup 
pose  that  it  had  attracted  any  attention. 

As  they  came  near  to  the  door  they  found  them 
selves  approaching  Mr.  Vivian  and  his  eldest  daughter, 
who  promptly  took  possession  of  Esther. 

"  What  did  you  think  of  the  debate  ?"  the  novelist 
asked. 


A   CONFIDENT  TO-MORKOAV  85 

"It  was  very  interesting  indeed/'  the  young  man 
answered.  "I  don't  hold  with  anarchy,  but  that  Ger 
man  stated  his  case  well,  and  I  liked  his  sincerity." 

Dircks  agreed  with  a  nod  of  his  head.  "  lie  meant 
what  he  said,  that's  plain." 

"That  may  well  be,"  Vivian  admitted,  "yet  they 
Avere  Avild  and  Avhirling  words,  after  all.  But  Gilling- 
ham,  IIOAV,  did  you  not  think  he  Avas  sincere,  too  ?" 

"Ko,"  said  Dircks,  gruffly  ;  "the  fellow  is  a  skunk." 

"I  don't  really  knoAV,"  Sartain  answered.  "But 
Avhatever  his  sincerity,  he  has  no  sympathy.  There 
isn't  a  drop  of  blood  in  him  !" 

"  That's  Avhat  I  meant  !"  Dircks  declared,  approv 
ingly. 

"Well,"  Vivian  rejoined,  "he  lacks  sympathy,  I'll 
admit.  The  only  fellow  he  has  any  feeling  for  is  him 
self.  I've  known  him  for  years,  and  he  seems  to  me  a 
type  of  the  hard-headed,  sharp-eyed,  keen-Avitted,  self- 
satisfied  man,  quite  able  to  hold  his  own  in  this  plu 
tocracy  of  ours,  the  existence  of  Avhich  he  accepts  com 
placently  as  inevitable,  if  not  as  ideal.  lie's  made  his 
paper  pay,  too." 

"That's  the  Avorst  of  NCAV  York,"  Sartain  said; 
"  there  isn't  any  paper  on  the  poor  man's  side — except 
a  fool  paper  or  two.  The  best  of  the  great  dailies  are 
OAvned  in  Wall  Street,  and  do  Wall  Street's  dirty  Avork. 
Even  the  Aveeklies  are  most  of  them  plutocratic.  I've 
often  Avondered  if  there  Avasn't  an  opening  here  for  a 
journal  Avhich  should  be  really  progressive  and  ready 
to  advocate  advanced  VICAVS  Avith  force  and  dignity 
and  Avefght.  Most  of  the  revieAvs  in  which  a  man  can 
speak  out  freely  are  open  also  to  every  crank  in  the 
country." 


86  A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW 

"  Yes,"  commented  Vivian,  with  his  playful  smile, 
"  I  suppose  it  must  be  irritating  to  a  serious  reformer 
to  find  himself  forced  to  associate  with  the  health-food 
advocates,  and  the  believers  in  Christian  science,  and 
with  all  sorts  of  wild  asses." 

"I've  often  thought  about  a  paper,"  Sartain  went 
on,  "which  should  voice  the  demands  of  the  new  day, 
and  yet  so  readable  it  would  get  a  big  circulation." 

"  Have  you  got  a  hundred  thousand  dollars  in  the 
bank  to  start  it  with  ?"  Vivian  asked,  jocularly. 

"  It  wouldn't  take  as  much  as  that,  would  it  ?"  the 
young  man  returned. 

"  I  shouldn't  think  it  safe  to  publish  a  new  weekly, 
even  without  illustrations,  with  less  than  fifty  thou 
sand,  at  all  events,"  the  novelist  declared,  "and  a 
hundred  thousand  might  not  be  enough  in  the  end. 
Perhaps  some  philanthropic  millionaire  will  endow  a 
reform  weekly  one  of  these  fine  days,  and  you  may  be 
appointed  editor." 

"Perhaps,"  Sartain  returned,  in  the  same  tone  ;  "but 
I  don't  believe  I'd  better  give  up  my  job  with  Caring- 
ton  &  Company  just  yet." 

Dircks  listened  to  this  easy  talk  with  obvious  inter 
est,  and  yet  without  taking  part  in  it.  Xow  Vivian 
addressed  him,  and  left  Sartain  free  to  join  Esther  and 
Johnny. 

While  he  had  been  conversing  with  their  fathers  he 
had  seen  them  sitting  side  by  side,  and  he  had  ob 
served  Adams  supplying  them  with  refreshments. 

"I  didn't  see  you  here  during  the  debate,"  he  said 
to  the  artist. 

"And  you  never  will,"  Adams  responded.  "I  cal 
culate  too  carefully  for  that.  I  try  to  hit  the  hour 


A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW  87 

just  too  late  for  the  gabble  and  not  too  late  for  the 
gobble.  To-night  I  got  here  not  five  minutes  before 
the  eloquence  was  turned  off,  and  Fve  done  my  duty 
—I've  provided  cold  victuals  for  two  poor  girls,  and 
now  I'm  going  to  get  a  bite  for  myself." 

"One  of  the  poor  girls  would  like  a  marron  glace," 
said  Esther. 

"  Let  me  get  it  for  you  !"  exclaimed  Sartain,  spring 
ing  forward. 

"  Well,  it  is  your  turn  now,"  the  artist  allowed,  as 
they  started  towards  the  refreshment-table  together. 

When  Sartain  was  able  to  return  with  a  dishful  of 
chestnuts  and  macaroons,  he  found  that  Adams  was 
also  back  again  with  a  plate  of  salad  for  himself. 

lie  longed  to  take  the  girl  he  loved  apart,  to  have 
her  all  to  himself,  apart  from  this  glitter  and  this 
babble  ;  he  would  have  liked  to  snatch  her  away  so 
that  he  alone  could  talk  to  her  without  interruption. 
But  he  discovered  that  Esther  Dircks  listened  to  Ad 
ams  with  pleasure,  as  though  his  liveliness  amused  her 
— or  was  it  that  she  was  really  interested  in  the  paint 
er  ?  As  that  suggestion  flashed  upon  him,  Sartain 
found  himself  ready  to  hate  Adams. 

"You  made  a  mistake  to-night,  Madams,"  said 
Johnny,  "  not  to  get  here  for  the  speeches.  They 
were  really  interesting,  particularly  what  that  German 
nihilist  said." 

"I  know  the  sort  of  thing  you  had  to  listen  to," 
Adams  retorted  —  "the  speech  that  is  an  hour  and 
forty  minutes  passing  a  given  point.  And  that's  sheer 
waste' of  time,  because  you  can  boil  the  nihilist  doc 
trine  down  to  a  single  sentence — nobody  ain't  never  to 
have  nothing  nohow." 


88  A   CONFIDENT  TO-MORROW 

Just  then  ail  old  lady  arose  and  left  vacant  the  seat 
next  to  Esther.  Adams  dropped  into  it  at  once. 

"Isn't  there  something  else  that  you  want?"  he 
asked  her.  "  If  there  is,  send  Sartain  for  it.  I'm  too 
weary  to  budge/' 

"  He's  pretty  cool,  isn't  he  ?"  laughed  Esther. 

"  He  is,  indeed,"  Johnny  answered ;  "  when  he 
comes  down  to  stay  with  us  in  the  country  we  use 
him  to  freeze  the  ice-cream  for  us." 

"  I  wonder  Avhere  this  club  gets  all  the  cranks  and 
the  freaks  it  exhibits,"  Adams  remarked.  "  It  must 
have  a  quarry  of  its  own  where  it  digs  them  up — that 
is,  unless  it  borrows  them  from  the  Museum  of  Natu 
ral  History.  In  all  my  life  I  never  saw  such  a  crowd 
of  long-haired  men  and  short-haired  women.  Nihil 
ists?  Well,  I  should  think  so.  Who  wouldn't  want  to 
be  annihilated  if  he  looked  like  the  strange  wild  beasts 
they  have  here  ?" 

"  Really,  you  ought  not  to  talk  that  way,"  said 
Esther,  gently.  "  Father  nearly  always  finds  the  de 
bates  here  very  enjoyable." 

"  Oh,  your  father — "  began  Adams,  who  suddenly 
checked  himself,  and  continued,  lamely,  "your  father 
— well,  he's  very  good-natured,  that's  all — he's  easily 
pleased." 

"  Do  you  say  that  because  he  likes  you,  Madams  ?" 
asked  Johnny,  slyly,  whereat  Esther  and  Sartain  laugh 
ed  heartily. 

The  artist  joined  in  the  merriment.  "  That's  one 
for  you,"  he  said.  "  I'm  keeping  tab  on  the  number  of 
times  you  score  off  me,  and  you  are  nearly  even  now." 

Again  Sartain  wished  that  he  had  the  assurance  of 
Adams,  the  self-control  and  even  temper.  It  struck 


A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW  89 

him  that  Esther  liked  to  have  the  artist  sitting  by  her 
side,  and  that  there  was  now  a  certain  air  of  animation 
about  her  which  he  had  failed  to  note  before.  Appar 
ently  the  fixity  of  his  stare  attracted  her  attention,  for 
she  looked  up,  and  their  glances  met,  and  he  dropped 
his  eyes,  but  not  before  he  had  seen  her  bright  smile. 
While  he  was  reproaching  himself  for  his  rudeness, 
it  pleased  him  to  think  that  she  did  not  dislike  him 
seemingly,  and  that,  at  all  events,  she  treated  him  in 
a  friendly  fashion. 

"Is  Johnny's  father  easy  to  please,  too?"  asked 
Esther,  as  the  pause  in  the  conversation  protracted 
itself,  "for  he  likes  the  Contemporary,  you  know." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Vivian,"  the  artist  returned,  "he  comes 
here  to  get  characters.  All  novelists  are  always  look 
ing  for  new  characters — just  as  painters  are  after  new 
models." 

"  Madams,"  said  Johnny,  "  do  you  think  my  father 
is  as  much  in  need  of  a  new  character  as — well,  as 
others  who  are  here  to-night  ?" 

While  Esther  and  Sartain  were  laughing  at  this  sec 
ond  hit,  the  artist  raised  a  deprecating  hand. 

"That  isn't  one  on  me,"  he  cried.  "I  deny  that 
one.  My  character  is  like  my  conscience — it's  in  ex 
cellent  repair." 

"  I  suppose  that's  because  your  conscience  is  in  no 
danger  of  being  worn  out  by  over-use,"  Johnny  sug 
gested,  Avith  her  eyes  twinkling  behind  her  little  gold 
eye-glasses. 

"  You  can  count  that  one,"  Adams  admitted.  "  I 
left  them  in  position  for  you,  and  it  was  my  fault  you 
made  your  carom.  But  you  ask  your  father  if  he 
doesn't  think  that  the  creatures  who  come  to  this  Con- 


90  A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW 

temporary  Club  of  his  are  a  very  variegated  lot.  Why, 
he  told  me  himself  yesterday  that  one  man  whom,  he 
had  invited  for  to-night  had  accepted  on  a  postal-card. 
On  a  postal-card  !  That  tells  you  what  kind  of  being 
comes  here.  I  wish  I  knew  who  it  was  ;  but  your 
father  wouldn't  tell  me." 

If  Adams  happened  to  look  up,  and  had  seen  the 
blood  rush  to  Sartain's  face,  and  then  slowly  recede, 
he  might  have  guessed  easily  that  the  being  who  had 
been  guilty  of  this  act  stood  before  him. 

Perhaps  Esther  perceived  the  blush  and  divined  the 
redness ;  and  perhaps  Johnny  knew.  At  any  rate,  both 
of  the  girls  promptly  came  to  Sartain's  relief. 

"  I  don't  see  that  that  is  so  very  awful,"  said  Esther. 
"  Why  shouldn't  a  man  write  on  a  postal  ?" 

"  What  are  postal-cards  for,  anyhow  ?"  Johnny  asked. 
"  Why  does  the  government  print  them,  if  you  won't 
allow  a  man  to  use  them  ?" 

Sartain  said  nothing.  He  was  grateful  to  the  girls 
for  their  defence  of  his  act ;  and  yet  he  burned  all  over 
at  the  thought  that  perhaps  they  suspected  him,  and 
were  championing  his  cause  from  feminine  tact. 

"  What  are  knives  for  ?"  retorted  the  artist.  "  Not 
to  eat  pie." 

Sartain  felt  that  he  ought  to  intervene  in  the  discus 
sion.  He  swallowed  a  lump  in  his  throat,  and  began 
with  an  inarticulate  murmur,  which  made  them  all 
look  up.  AVhereupon  he  felt  more  uncomfortable  than 
ever  and  blushed  again. 

"In  the  Middle  West,"  he  managed  to  say,  at  last, 
"  I  think  it  would  be  allowable  to  use  a  postal-card  to 
accept  an  invitation — I  mean — that  is — from  one  man 
to  another." 


A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW  91 

"  Oh,  the  Middle  West,"  returned  Adams.  "  If  you 
mean  Chicago,  I  know  all  about  it.  I  went  out  there 
once  to  paint  a  couple  of  portraits.  Well,  in  the  Mid 
dle  West,  then,  they  give  you  tea  with  your  dinner. 
Now,  a  man  who  wants  tea  with  his  dinner  would 
write  a  proposal  of  marriage  on  a  postal-card,  I  don't 
doubt.  And  when  he  comes  East  on  a  cattle-train,  he 
is  invited  to  the  Contemporary  Club.  That's  jtvhat  I 
said  at  first,  didn't  I  ?" 

Johnny  seemed  to  think  that  this  conversation  had 
lasted  long  enough.  "  Madams,"  she  said,  holding  out 
her  empty  ice-cream  plate,  "I  will  graciously  permit 
you  to  put  this  down  for  me." 

"Allow  me,"  said  Sartain,  taking  it  from  her,  and 
then  relieving  Esther  also  of  her  plate. 

"  That's  right,"  Adams  declared,  as  he  continued  to 
eat  his  own  salad.  "You  let  Sartain  wait  on  you. 
I've  served  my  time.  Besides,  if  I  were  to  get  up,  he 
would  take  my  seat — and  I  am  very  comfortable  as  I 
am." 

"  Can't  I  get  you  some  more  ice-cream  ?"  Sartain 
asked. 

"  No,  thank  you,"  Esther  responded.  "  But  I  hope 
you  will  get  something  for  yourself." 

"That's  so,"  agreed  Johnny.  "The  poor  man 
hasn't  had  a  bite  yet." 

Sartain  took  the  two  empty  plates  to  the  long  table 
in  the  centre  of  the  room,  brilliant  with  candelabra 
and  crowded  with  silver  dishes  ;  and  in  time  he  was 
able  to  get  one  of  the  waiters  to  give  him  a  croquette 
or  two",  and  a  few  leaves  of  lettuce. 

When  he  tried  to  return  he  had  to  twist  in  and  out 
through  a  throng  of  ladies.  On  the  edge  of  this 


93  A   CONFIDENT   TO-MORTIOW 

feminine  maze  he  found  Johnny,  who  had  risen  to 
speak  to  a  passing  friend.  Now,  instead  of  returning 
to  her  seat  by  the  side  of  Esther,  she  seemed  to  prefer 
standing. 

"I'm  glad  you  were  able  to  get  your  salad  at  last," 
she  began,  and  he  had  to  take  his  stand  beside  her. 
"Sometimes,  when  there  is  a  crowd  like  this,  we  run 
out  of  something." 

Sartain  looked  over  Johnny's  broad  shoulder  at 
Adams  sitting  by  the  side  of  Esther  and  talking  to 
her  with  animation.  He  wished  that  Johnny  was  not 
detaining  him  and  that  he  could  go  over  and  thrust 
himself  into  the  conversation  of  the  others. 

Then  suddenly  he  bethought  himself  how  rude  he 
must  seem  to  Mr.  Vivian's  daughter  in  not  responding 
to  her  remark  ;  and  so  he  declared  at  last,  as  though 
he  had  been  trying  to  make  up  his  mind  about  it, 
"This  salad  is  really  very  good,  isn't  it  ?" 

"It  isn't  half  bad,  as  they  say  in  London,"  she 
answered  ;  "but  if  you  are  a  judge  of  salads,  I  must 
get  papa  to  make  you  one." 

"Mr.  Vivian  make  a  salad!"  he  ejaculated  in  sur 
prise,  wondering  how  long  Adams  was  going  to  sit 
there  next  to  Esther  Dircks. 

"You  didn't  know  papa  did  that  sort  of  thing?" 
Johnny  asked.  "  Well,  he  does,  and  he's  very  proud 
of  it,  too.  lie  says  he's  willing  to  admit  that  old 
Dumas  could  write  a  more  popular  novel  than  he  can, 
but  he  denies  that  Dumas  could  make  a  better  salad." 

Some  of  Johnny's  ways  had  struck  him  at  first  as 
unduly  mannish,  but  she  had  feminine  tact  also,  for 
she  was  able  to  put  him  at  his  ease.  Having  been  in 
love  with  Esther  from  the  first  hour  he  had  spoken  to 


A   CONFIDENT  TO-MORROW  93 

her,  the  young  man  had  neglected  the  other  girls  he 
had  met  that  same  afternoon ;  they  had  interested  him 
merely  as  her  friends  and  associates.  But  this  evening, 
captured  on  his  way  to  join  Esther,  he  was  forced  to 
consider  Johnny.  To  his  surprise  he  discovered  that 
she  was  really  almost  handsome.  She  was  about  of  his 
own  age  and  almost  of  his  own  height.  Like  her  sis 
ters  she  was  inclined  to  be  plump ;  but  her  figure 
though  full  was  a  little  slighter  than  theirs.  There 
was  a  hint  of  masculine  severity  in  the  simplicity  of 
her  well-cut  evening-gown,  but  even  this  suited  her 
style,  so  Sartain  admitted. 

Probably  he  let  the  conversation  drop,  for  Johnny 
noted  the  direction  of  his  gaze  and  turned  so  that  she 
could  see  what  he  Avas  looking  at. 

Then  she  deftly  shifted  the  subject  of  their  talk. 
"Isn't  that  delicate  shade  of  blue  becoming  to  Es 
ther  ?"  she  said. 

"It  is,  I  suppose,"  Sartain  responded,  "but  then  I 
should  think  Miss  Dircks  would  look  well  in  any 
thing." 

"  Yes,"  said  Johnny,  cordially,  "her  coloring  is  ex 
quisite.  It's  no  wonder  an  artist  like  Madams  admires 
her  so  much." 

"Admires  her  so  much  ?"  he  repeated,  stupidly,  as 
he  held  his  fork  suspended  half  way  to  his  mouth. 

"Can't  you  see  that  he  simply  adores  her?"  she  re 
plied.  "  Where  are  your  eyes  ?  Just  look  at  him  this 
very  minute." 

Now  that  Sartain  had  been  told,  he  could  see  how 
devotedly  the  artist  was  addressing  the  girl.  A  chill 
dread  clutched  his  heart  as  he  asked  a  question. 

"  Are  they — are  they  engaged  ?" 


94  A   CONFIDENT  TO-MOBBOW 

"  Oh  dear,  no,"  Johnny  answered. 

Sartain  drew  in  a  long  sigh  of  relief,  straightened 
himself  up,  and  squared  his  shoulders. 

"At  least,  they  are  not  engaged  yet,"  returned 
Johnny.  "But  of  course  I  do  not  know  what  may 
happen  sooner  or  later.  Madams  must  have  proposed 
to  her  three  or  four  times,  I  should  suppose,  and 
Esther  always  rejects  him,  and  he  refuses  to  be  dis 
couraged.  Perhaps,  d  la  longue,  as  they  say  in  Paris, 
she  may  change  her  mind." 

"  She  may  change  her  mind  !"  Sartain  echoed,  auto 
matically,  as  his  heart  sank  again.  A  waiter  happened 
to  pass  then,  and  he  thrust  into  the  man's  hands  his 
plate  with  the  most  of  the  croquette  still  on  it. 

"You  see,  Madams  is  a  very  amusing  fellow,"  she 
continued.  "He  is  good  company  always.  Perhaps 
some  day  Esther  will  discover  that  he  is  not  a  bad 
thing  to  have  in  the  house." 

Again  Sartain  contrasted  himself  with  Adams,  to  his 
own  disadvantage.  Yet  he  refused  to  admit  that  the 
artist's  affection  for  Esther,  great  as  it  might  be — and 
it  was  the  older  undoubtedly — was  as  powerful  as  his 
own.  With  all  the  ardor  of  youth  he  believed  that 
love  must  respond  to  love.  So  he  took  heart  again, 
and  in  his  mind  he  made  ready  for  a  long  struggle. 
The  odds  were  against  him,  no  doubt,  but  he  was  no 
coward,  and  he  refused  to  admit  that  he  could  be 
beaten,  however  superior  his  rival  might  be. 

"  Yes,"  he  managed  to  repeat,  "Mr.  Adams  is  good 
company." 

"And  he  is  a  rising  man,  too,"  Johnny  declared. 
"For  all  his  willingness  to  play  the  fool  and  make  us 
laugh  and  all  that,  he  takes  his  art  very  seriously." 


A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW  95 

' '  Does  he  ?"  asked  Sartain,  wondering  whether  any 
one  of  Adams's  pictures  Avas  better  in  its  way  than 
Dust  and  Aslies,  and  resolving  at  once  to  begin  a  new 
book,  which  should  be  Avholly  without  the  defects  he 
had  already  perceived  in  his  first  novel. 

"Yes,"  Johnny  went  on.  "Papa  says  that  to  hear 
Madams  talk  you  wouldn't  think  he  could  paint  at  all, 
but  lie  can.  He  had  a  second  medal  at  the  Salon  last 
year." 

"Indeed?"  Sartain  commented,  instantly  wishing 
there  was  in  literature  some  equivalent  for  the  Salon, 
where  novelists  might  compete  for  medals. 

"  And  he's  one  of  the  best  illustrators  in  New  York," 
Mr.  Vivian's  daughter  added.  "  Papa  would  rather 
have  Madams  make  the  pictures  for  his  stories  than 
anybody  else." 

Sartain  let  his  fancy  travel  swiftly  into  the  future ; 
and  in  his  mind  he  promptly  arranged  all  the  details 
of  the  scene  in  which,  after  he  was  engaged  to  Esther, 
and  after  the  editor  of  the  Metropolis  had  accepted  his 
serial — either  Dust  and  Ashes,  or  the  better  story  he  was 
going  to  write  next — he  should  suggest  that  he  would 
like  to  have  Mr.  Emerson  Adams  employed  to  prepare 
the  illustrations.  Then  the  absurdity  of  this  vain  im 
agining  suddenly  struck  him  and  he  laughed  bitterly. 

Johnny  looked  at  him  in  surprise,  and  he  made 
haste  to  apologize  awkwardly,  confessing  frankly  that 
his  attention  had  wandered. 

"That's  not  very  complimentary  to  me,  is  it  ?"she 
asked,  with  a  slight  flush. 

The  young  man  involved  himself  in  further  explana 
tions,  in  the  course  of  which  his  mind  went  astray 
again,  for  he  saw  Esther  had  been  left  alone,  and  his 


96  A   CONFIDENT  TO-MORROW 

immediate  desire  was  to  rush  to  her  and  capture  the 
empty  chair  by  her  side.  He  recognized,  however,  that 
he  could  not  leave  Johnny  standing  alone.  His  first 
thought  was  to  get  her  to  gravitate  with  him  towards 
her  father,  to  whom  he  might  abandon  her  without 
discourtesy.  While  he  was  endeavoring  to  accomplish 
this  manoeuvre,  he  wondered  why  it  was  that  Esther 
did  not  join  them.  She  sat  there  alone  quite  tran 
quilly,  and  once  she  caught  Sartain's  eye  and  they  ex 
changed  a  smile ;  but  she  made  no  motion  to  rise.  He 
could  not  ask  her  to  come  to  him,  and  he  could  not 
break  away  to  go  to  her.  Fortunately  the  throng  was 
now  thinning ;  and  as  Sartain  once  and  again  stepped 
out  of  the  Avay  of  ladies  who  wished  to  say  good-night 
to  friends  on  the  other  side  of  the  room,  he  was  able 
to  guide  Johnny  nearer  and  nearer  to  Mr.  Vivian. 

But  to  Sartain's  disappointment,  just  as  he  was 
about  to  answer  some  casual  remark  of  Johnny's  by  an 
appeal  to  her  father,  whereby  the  other  group  would 
be  included  in  their  conversation,  Mr.  Vivian  detached 
himself  from  Dircks  and  Adams  and  Avalked  over  to 
Esther. 

At  the  risk  of  repeating  his  rudeness  to  Johnny, 
Sartain  kept  watch  on  the  woman  he  loved  and  on  the 
man  who  was  noAV  talking  to  her.  He  noted  the  smile 
of  pleasure  with  which  she  welcomed  Mr.  Vivian,  and 
the  self-possession  with  which  she  suggested  that  he 
take  the  seat  by  her  side. 

And  then  to  Sartain's  astonishment  he  saw  the  same 
look  in  Mr.  Vivian's  eyes  when  they  were  fixed  011 
Esther  Dircks  that  he  had  already  seen  in  Adams's. 
Did  this  mean  that  the  elder  novelist  was  also  in  love 
with  her  ?  Sartain  doubted  whether  this  Avouhl  not 


A    CONFIDENT    TO-MORROW  97 

bo  a  more  serious  rivalry  than  the  artist's.  But  what 
right  had  Mr.  Vivian  to  enter  the  lists  against  a  young 
man  ? — he  had  had  one  wife  already,  and  that  was  his 
full  share ;  besides,  he  had  a  daughter  older  than  Es 
ther,  and  it  was  indecent  of  him  to  make  love  to  her. 

So  perturbed  Avas  he  by  this  strange  discovery  that 
he  omitted  to  support  his  share  of  the  conversation 
with  Johnny. 

At  last,  when  he  had  failed  to  make  any  response  to 
a  remark  of  hers  repeated  twice,  Mr.  Vivian's  daughter 
followed  the  direction  of  his  stare  and  discovered  that 
he  was  gazing  at  Esther.  Again  the  flush  came  into 
her  cheeks  and  this  time  it  lingered  a  little  longer. 
AVith  no  further  attempt  to  recall  the  attention  of  the 
young  man,  she  turned  to  Adams,  who  was  now  at  her 
elbow  talking  to  Mr.  Dircks. 

Sartain  stood  there  alone  for  a  minute  or  two,  watch 
ing  every  expression  that  fleeted  over  Esther's  face. 
To  his  surprise,  he  saw  that  the  attentions  of  Mr.  Viv 
ian,  old  as  the  man  was,  were  welcome  to  her,  and 
that  she  seemed  to  enjoy  his  conversation,  laughing 
gayly.  Sartain  had  conceived  of  Esther  as  an  ethereal 
being,  so  spiritual  as  to  be  above  all  mortal  failings. 
Now  he  asked  himself  if  he  had  been  wholly  mistaken 
and  if  the  girl  were  merely  a  heartless  coquette. 

How  long  he  stood  there  in  self-torture,  twisting  the 
end  of  his  beard,  in  the  middle  of  the  rapidly  deplet 
ing  crowd,  he  did  not  know.  Then  he  recovered  his 
self-possession.  Blushing  at  the  rudeness  with  which 
he  had  treated  Johnny,  he  looked  up  to  find  that  she 
was  no  longer  before  him.  He  turned  hastily,  to  dis 
cover  her  by  his  side,  chatting  with  Mr.  Dircks  and 
Adams. 

7 


98  A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW 

"I  bog  your  pardon,"  he  began,  clumsily.  "I  —  I 
don't  know  what  came  over  me  just  then.  I'm  afraid 
my — my  wits  were  wool-gathering." 

"Don't  apologize,"  she  said,  icily.  "It  i-s  of  no 
consequence,  I  assure  you." 

"  My  wits  go  wool-gathering  sometimes,"  Adams  re 
marked,  "and — " 

"  And  then  it's  a  case  of  much  cry  and  little  AVOO!  !" 
Johnny  interrupted,  with  a  hard  laugh.  The  flush  had 
gone  from  her  face,  but  there  was  a  tiny  spot  of  red 
high  on  each  cheek. 

"Little  Bo-Peep,  I  am  not  one  of  your  sheep,"  the 
artist  retorted.  "I'm  my  own  master." 

"  I  don't  think  it  is  a  proof  of  self-possession  that 
you  should  be  able  to  give  yourself  away  so  often," 
Johnny  rejoined.  "Do  you?" 

"  I'm  not  always  self-possessed,"  Adams  responded. 
"  I'm  either  abounding  in  assurance  or  else  I'm  ex 
cessive  in  awkwardness.  Why,  I've  put  my  foot  in 
it  so  often  I'm  sometimes  afraid  I  must  be  really  a 
centipede." 

In  his  existing  state  of  mind  Sartain  was  glad  that 
he  was  not  called  upon  to  take  part  in  the  conver 
sation.  He  listened  to  it  perfunctorily,  having  again 
changed  his  position  so  as  to  bring  Esther  and  Vivian 
again  Avithin  his  range  of  vision.  He  did  not  notice 
that  Dircks  had  suddenly  left  them,  after  having  stood 
for  a  Avhile  looking  gravely  from  under  his  beetling 
eyebrows  at  one  and  then  at  the  other,  as  though  try 
ing  to  puzzle  out  the  real  meaning  of  Avhat  they  said. 

His  attention  was  soon  called  to  Dircks  by  Adams. 

"  Hello  !  hello  !"  cried  the  artist— "  Avhat  is  the  old 
man  up  to  IIOAV  ?" 


A   CONFIDENT  TO-MOliliOW  99 

In  the  doorway  they  saw  the  large  figure  of  Dircks, 
with  his  huge  hand  grasping  the  shoulder  of  a  little 
man,  who  was  obviously  very  much  frightened  at  the 
violence  and  the  unexpectedness  of  the  attack. 

"  It's  like  that  little  Mr.  Gillingham,  isn't  it  ?"  asked 
Johnny. 

"So  it  is,"  said  the  artist;  "and  the  old  man  has 
him  under  his  paw,  just  like  a  big  Newfoundland  get 
ting  ready  to  shake  the  life  out  of  a  terrier." 

"  The  dog  that  would  be  as  scared  as  that  fellow  is," 
Sartain  declared,  "  would  be  only  a  mongrel  cur." 

"  I  wonder  what  the  matter  is,"  said  Johnny. 

Then  Sartain  recalled  the  threat  he  had  heard  Dircks 
make  after  the  debate,  to  tell  Gillingham  what  he 
thought  of  him.  He  stepped  forward  at  once,  not 
knowing  to  what  lengths  the  old  man  might  intend  to 
proceed.  The  president  of  the  club  came  up  at  the 
same  moment,  on  the  opposite  side,  in  time  to  see 
Dircks  release  his  hold  on  the  smaller  man's  coat,  and 
to  hear  the  little  editor  assert,  angrily,  that  he  had 
never  been  so  insulted  in  his  life. 

"  That's  all  right,"  Dircks  declared,  looking  down 
at  his  victim.  "  You  needn't  look  so  scart.  I'm 
through  with  you.  I  made  up  my  mind  I'd  tell 
you  what  a  liar  you  were,  and  I've  done  it.  That's 
all.  You  can  go  now.  I  wouldn't  have  laid  hands 
on  you  at  all,  but  you  kept  trying  to  inch  out  of  the 
room." 

Dircks,  having  made  this  explanation,  placidly  left 
Gillingham  to  recover  from  his  fright,  under  the  con 
solations  of  the  president. 

"  There  Ava'n't  no  need  of  his  being  so  scart,"  ex 
plained  Dircks,  calmly,  to  Sartain.  "  lie  might  have 


100  A    CONFIDENT   TO-MOBBOW 

known  I  wa'n't  going  to  soil  my  hands  on  a  little  skunk 
like  him.  Of  course  I  could  have  wrung  his  neck.,  if 
I'd  a  mind  to." 

Not  a  third  of  the  audience  was  now  left  in  the  re 
ception  -  room,  and  the  fact  that  there  had  been  an 
altercation  of  some  sort  was  apparent  to  all,  from  the 
shrill  protests  of  Gillingham. 

Esther  came  speeding  towards  her  father,  and  Sar- 
tain  joyed  in  the  grace  of  her  movements. 

"Father,"  she  asked,  gently,  "what  have  you  been 
doing  to  him  ?" 

"  I  told  you  I'd  give  him  a  piece  of  my  mind," 
he  answered,  gravely  and  wholly  without  excitement. 
"  Well,  I  got  the  chance  and  I've  done  it.  It's  all  over 
now.  lie's  had  his  medicine,  and  he  had  to  take  it, 
and  there's  an  end.  That's  all  there  is  to  it." 

Sartain  saw  that  the  girl  was  trembling.  "There's 
no  occasion  for  alarm,  Miss  Dircks,"  he  said;  "your 
father  was  very  gentle  with  the  man." 

"  Father  does  take  so  much  interest  in  politics,"  she 
said,  "and  he  gets  so  excited  sometimes  that  I  never 
know  what  he  is  going  to  do." 

"  He  didn't  hurt  anybody  this  time,"  Sartain  assured 
her,  glad  to  have  the  girl  to  himself  again.  "  Gilling 
ham  needn't  have  been  so  frightened." 

"It  was  very  good  of  you  to  go  over  to  them  at 
once,"  Esther  said,  looking  in  his  eyes,  "and  I  thank 
you  for  it." 

Sartain  glowed  with  delight. 

"  Oh,  that  was  nothing,"  he  began,  "  absolutely 
nothing.  There  was  never  any  danger  to  anybody. 
You  alarmed  yourself  unnecessarily." 

"Well,  Esther,"  called  Dircks,  and  when  addressing 


A    CONFIDENT   TO-MOKHOW  101 

his  daughter  his  voice  was  less  gruff  than  at  other 
times,,  "  it's  time  for  us  to  go,  I  guess." 

"I'm  ready  now,  father,"  she  answered. 

Sartain  could  not  be  sure,  but  he  thought  that  she 
whispered  a  suggestion  to  her  father,  and  he  certainly 
saw  the  old  man's  glance,  seeking  some  one,  resting 
finally  on  him. 

Then  Johnny  and  Esther  went  off  to  the  ladies' 
dressing-room  for  their  wraps.  In  the  hall  there  was  a 
stream  of  people  pressing  towards  the  door,  the  women 
carefully  hooded  and  the  men  with  their  overcoats  on, 
some  of  them  having  lighted  their  cigars  in  the  cloak 
room. 

Sartain  heard  one  very  thin  lady  say  to  a  friend  as 
she  passed,  "Very  enjoyable  evening,  wasn't  it?" 

"Quite  an  intellectual  treat,  I  call  it,"  the  other 
woman  answered. 

Dircks  laid  his  large  hairy  hand  on  Sartain's  arm. 

"  Come  and  see  us,"  he  said,  cordially.  "  Sunday 
afternoon's  the  best  time.  My  girl  is  always  home 
then.  We  live  in  Stuyvesant  Square.  It's  quieter 
down  there." 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Dircks,"  Sartain  answered,  his 
heart  leaping  with  joy.  "I  shall  be  delighted  to  call 
next  Sunday." 

Only  when  he  had  bid  them  all  good-night  and  was 
walking  down  Fifth  Avenue  by  himself  did  he  dis 
cover  that,  in  his  satisfaction  at  the  invitation,  he  had 
forgotten  to  inquire  what  was  Mr.  Dircks's  address, 
lie  blamed  himself  for  this  severely,  and  wondered 
why  he  always  made  a  fool  of  himself,  and  asked  him 
self  when  he  would  ever  have  any  common  -  sense. 
The  blunder  was  not  irreparable  he  knew,  as  he  had 


102  A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW 

no  doubt  that  "before  Sunday  he  could  find  out  from 
the  Vivians  where  it  was  that  Esther  lived. 

And  another  thought  came  to  console  him  before 
he  reached  the  door  of  the  boarding-house  in  Irving 
Place.  It  struck  him  suddenly  that  perhaps  the  in 
vitation  came  from  Esther  herself — that  perhaps  this 
was  what  she  had  suggested  to  her  father,  and  this  was 
why  the  old  man  had  looked  around  for  him. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

DURIXG  the  next  two  or  three  days  Sartain  went 
over  in  his  mind  every  incident  of  the  memorable 
evening  at  the  Contemporary  Club.  He  jotted  down 
his  impressions  for  future  literary  use  ;  and  he  began 
to  plan  how  he  could  make  them  available  in  the  new 
novel  of  New  York  life  which  he  intended  to  under 
take  soon.  lie  foresaw  already  that  it  would  be  pos 
sible  for  the  hero  first  to  display  himself  to  the  pub 
lic  in  a  debate  at  the  Contemporary  Club,  disclosing 
great  gifts  of  oratory  and  triumphantly  annihilating 
the  shallow  sophistries  of  the  other  speakers.  Soon 
it  occurred  to  him  that  here  was  the  best  possible 
opening  chapter  for  the  new  novel,  an  opening  chap 
ter  like  the  first  act  of  a  play,  in  which  all  the  charac 
ters  are  introduced  and  the  theme  is  clearly  presented. 
There  would  be  a  chance  to  start  the  story  with  a 
brilliant  and  broadly  brushed  picture,  quite  in  the 
Daudet  manner,  good  in  itself  and  better  as  a  prepara 
tion  for  what  was  to  follow.  Then  the  outline  of  the 
tale  began  to  suggest  itself  dimly  to  him.  The  young 
orator  would  be  an  ardent  reformer,  coming  from  the 
pure  country  to  redeem  the  sordid  city.  Probably  in 
this  narrative  of  the  hero's  efforts  Sartain  would  be 
able  to  describe  all  the  attractive  phases  of  life  in  New 
York  —  attractive  from  a  literary  point  of  view,  he 


104  A   CONFIDENT  TO-MOHROW 

meant.  Perhaps  the  eloquent  young  countryman 
would  be  rich  at  first,  and  he  might  lose  his  fortune 
through  the  rascality  of  the  heroine's  father.  If  the 
hero  were  to  be  desperately  poor  for  a  while,  the 
author  could  use  a  title  he  had  long  had  in  mind 
— A  Wolf  at  the  Door  —  more  enticing,  it  seemed  to 
him,  even  than  Dust  and  Ashes.  He  intermitted  the 
plotting  of  the  new  tale  long  enough  to  visualize  its 
title  on  a  pictorial  poster  with  a  realistic  wolf  waiting 
hungrily  at  the  snow-covered  door-step. 

As  Sunday  drew  nigh  he  wondered  how  he  was  to 
ascertain  where  Esther  Dircks  and  her  father  lived. 
The  Vivians  would  be  at  home  on  Saturday  afternoon, 
he  knew  ;  and  he  could,  of  course,  call  on  them  and 
ask  for  the  address.  But  his  face  burned  red  when 
ever  he  recalled  either  the  postal-card  he  had  written 
to  accept  the  invitation  or  the  rudeness  with  which  he 
had  treated  Johnny  at  the  Contemporary.  AVhenever 
he  dwelt  on  this  he  was  ready  to  declare  that  New 
York  was  too  much  for  him  —  too  complicated,  too 
sophisticated — and  to  resolve  that  he  had  best  go  back 
at  once  to  Topeka. 

As  he  was  getting  ready  to  leave  his  office  on  Satur 
day  he  saw  the  art-editor  pass  the  door  ;  and  then  it 
occurred  to  him  that  this  gentleman,  who  had  arranged 
for  all  the  illustrations  required  in  the  many  publica 
tions  of  Carington  &  Company,  probably  would  know 
the  address  of  an  engraver. 

"  Old  Raphael  Dircks  ?"  the  art  -  editor  answered, 
when  Sartain  put  the  question  to  him.  "  He  lives  over 
in  Stuyvesant  Square,  somewhere.  Let  me  see — I've 
got  his  address  here,  I  think.  Yes,  that's  it — I'll  write 
it  on  a  card  for  you.  It  is  an  out-of-the-way  part  of 


A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW  105 

the  town,  on  Second  Avenue,  you  know.  Sunday  af 
ternoons  it's  Lover's  Lane  ;  it's  a  regular  courting- 
ground  for  the  shop-girls  and  their  beaus." 

Sartain  put  the  card  in  his  pocket ;  and  that  after 
noon  he  went  across  to  see  where  it  was  that  Esther 
lived.  He  found  the  house  easily ;  it  was  a  spacious, 
old-fashioned  dwelling,  on  the  northern  side  of  the 
square,  beyond  Second  Avenue.  Little  as  the  young 
man  from  the  West  knew  about  the  rentals  of  houses 
in  New  York,  he  did  not  believe  it  possible  that  Es 
ther's  father  could  afford  to  pay  for  the  whole  of  a  res 
idence  so  ample. 

As  he  walked  past  he  saw  that  there  were  the  mouths 
of  four  speaking  -  trumpets  in  the  vestibule,  visible 
through  the  open  door,  and  he  guessed  then  that  this 
meant  the  dwelling  was  now  let  in  separate  flats.  He 
would  have  liked  to  go  up  the  stoop  and  to  see  what 
floor  the  Dirckses  had,  that  he  could  make  sure  which 
windows  Esther  might  look  out  of.  But  he  did  not 
dare  venture  on  this,  feeling  that  it  would  be  an  intru 
sion. 

The  next  afternoon — Sunday — when  Sartain  mus 
tered  up  his  courage  and  set  forth  to  avail  himself  of 
Mr.  Dircks's  invitation  to  call,  the  appearance  of  Stuy- 
vesant  Square  was  not  attractive,  for  the  day  was  moist 
and  misty,  and  a  drizzle  of  rain  dripped  from  the  few 
bare  trees. 

Under  each  of  the  four  speaking-tubes  were  a  bell- 
pull  and  a  letter-box  with  the  name  of  the  owner  upon 
it.  Sartain  saw  that  the  Dirckses  lived  on  the  third 
floor.  He  pulled  the  bell  and  waited.  A  minute  later 
he  heard  a  click  as  of  the  opening  of  a  lock,  and  then  a 
remote  and  mysterious  voice  invited  him  to  "  Come  up." 


106  A   CONFIDENT  TO-MOBBOW 

Turning  around,  ho  found  that  the  door  was  now 
ajar,  and  lie  guessed  that  the  click  had  been  due  to 
the  pulling  of  the  bolt  by  some  hidden  wire  from  up 
stairs. 

He  entered  and  closed  the  door  behind  him.  At 
four  o'clock  on  a  rainy  November  afternoon  the  hall 
was  so  dark  that  he  had  to  grope  his  way.  There 
was  a  stale  smell  of  cooking ;  and  as  he  went  up  the 
second  flight  of  stairs  he  heard  the  snapping  notes  of 
a  banjo.  When  he  arrived  at  the  third  floor  he  hesi 
tated,  not  knowing  which  door  he  ought  to  knock  at. 
Finally  he  made  a  choice,  and  rapped  firmly.  The  low 
voice  of  Esther  Dircks  bade  him  come  in ;  and  there 
upon  he  opened  the  door. 

The  room  which  he  entered  Avas  fairly  large,  and  it 
had  two  windows  looking  out  on  the  square.  Esther 
sat  in  a  rocking-chair  between  the  window  and  the  fire 
place,  red  with  a  hard-coal  fire.  She  had  a  bundle  of 
bills  on  her  lap,  and  a  blank-book,  in  which  she  was 
making  figures. 

"Sit  down,"  she  said,  without  raising  her  eyes  from 
her  calculations.  ' '  Father  will  be  here  in  a  few  min 
utes." 

Sartain  stood  silently,  surprised  to  be  received  so 
unceremoniously. 

Probably  the  constraint  of  his  attitude  attracted  her 
attention  in  some  way,  for  she  looked  up. 

"Oh  !"  she  cried,  in  surprise.  "Why,  it's  Mr.  Sar 
tain  !" 

It  seemed  to  the  young  man  that  the  color  came 
across  the  pale  cheeks  and  went  again  at  once.  But 
she  had  her  back  to  the  dim  light,  and  he  could  not  be 
sure. 


A   CONFIDENT  TO-MOltROW  107 

"Didn't  you  expect  me  ?"  he  began.  "I — I  mean 
that  I  have  availed  myself  at  once  of  your  kind  invita 
tion — and — and — " 

'•'  My  kind  invitation  ?"  she  repeated. 

"  Your  father's  kind  invitation,  I  mean/'  he  ex 
plained.  "He — he  asked  me  to  call  some  Sunday — 
and — and  so  I  came  to-day." 

"I  must  have  seemed  very  rude  to  you/'  she  said, 
when  he  hesitated  again.  "  But  I  thought  you  were 
Mr.  Adams." 

"  Did  you  ?"  Sartain  asked,  with  a  swift  pang  of  jeal 
ousy  that  the  artist  should  be  on  a  more  friendly  foot 
ing  with  her  than  he  was. 

"Do  take  off  your  overcoat,"  she  said,  "and  you 
can  have  that  comfortable  seat  by  the  fire  here.  It  is  a 
miserable  day,  isn't  it  ?  Mr.  Adams  says  that  this 
kind  of  weather  must  have  been  imported  from  Eng 
land  in  the  Mayflower." 

"So  you  were  expecting  Adams  this  afternoon?" 
was  the  question  that  Sartain  asked,  almost  unwitting 
ly,  as  he  took  the  chair  in  front  of  her. 

"  We  Avere  not  exactly  expecting  him/'  the  girl  re 
turned  ;  "at  least,  not  this  afternoon  particularly.  But 
he  often  drops  in  on  Sundays.  Father  likes  to  hear 
him  talk." 

"And  you  do  too  ?"  was  Sartain's  next  question ; 
and  ho  had  no  sooner  uttered  it  than  he  was  aware 
that  it  was  an  impertinence. 

"  Oh  yes,  indeed,"  she  responded,  frankly.  "  I 
think  Mr.  Adams  is  the  most  amusing  man  I  know. 
He  is  so  unexpected  in  what  he  says ;  don't  you  think 
so?" 

Sartain  again  regretted  that  he  was  not  a  ready  talker, 


108  A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW 

and  that  his  conversation  was  not  unexpected  also. 
Yet  he  thought  that  perhaps  there  was  something  re 
assuring  in  the  careless  way  Esther  spoke  of  Adams  ; 
if  she  were  in  love  with  a  man,  surely  she  would  not 
call  him  amusing  and  unexpected;  and  he  wondered 
if  she  would  speak  of  Vivian  in  the  same  tone. 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  "Adams  is  bright.  But  I 
don't  think  his  conversation  has  the  charm  of  Mr. 
Vivian's/' 

"Perhaps  not,"  she  returned,  "for  it  is  always  a 
pleasure  to  hear  Mr.  Vivian  talk.  He  makes  every 
thing  so  clear ;  and  he  is  so  kind  to  me,  too.  He  always 
explains  things  to  me ;  and  he  is  ever  so  patient.  I  am 
just  as  ignorant  as  can  be,  you  know,  and  he  doesn't 
seem  to  mind  that  at  all." 

From  her  manner  Sartain  could  not  guess  whether 
or  not  she  had  any  suspicion  that  Vivian  was  in  love 
with  her.  For  the  first  time  Sartain  recognized  how 
appalling  is  the  inscrutability  of  woman. 

"He  is  very  kind,  as  you  say,"  Sartain  responded. 
"  Nobody  knows  that  better  than  I — for  it  is  all  owing 
to  him  that  I  am  here  now." 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  her  illuminating  smile. 

"  That's  a  compliment  to  me,  isn't  it  ?"  she  asked, 
gayly.  "  Do  you  want  me  to  get  up  and  courtesy  to 
you  ?" 

"Oh  no,"  he  replied,  in  confusion.  "No — what  I 
meant  was  that  I  shouldn't  have  met  you  if  he  had 
not  asked  me  into  his  parlor  that  afternoon  when  you 
were  posing  as  Cinderella." 

"I  think  I  saw  what  you  meant,"  she  returned. 
"And  I  don't  wonder  at  all  that  you  are  glad  to  go 
to  the  Vivians'.  I  am,  too.  I'm  always  so  delighted 


A    CONFIDENT   TO-MOIUIOW  109 

to  be  with  the  girls,  because  they  talk  about  people, 
you  know,  while  father  is  always  talking  about  things. 
Now,  I  think  persons  are  ever  so  much  more  inter 
esting  than  things.  I  just  love  to  get  with  Theo  and 
Dora,  and  have  a  good  gossip,  and  make  fun  of  every 
body  we  know." 

"  That  must  be  delightful,"  said  Sartain,  ruefully, 
aware  that  he  was  probably  one  of  those  whom  the 
twins  had  made  fun  of.  The  memory  of  that  unlucky 
postal-card  blazed  again  in  his  cheeks.  "  I  suppose 
you  were  there  yesterday  afternoon  ?" 

"  We  were  at  the  opera,"  she  answered;  "it  was  the 
first  matinee  of  '  Lohengrin,'  and  father  never  misses 
anything  of  Wagner,  if  AVC  can  help  it." 

That  the  rough -looking  Dircks  should  go  to  the 
opera  struck  Sartain  as  a  strange  incongruity,  and 
stranger  still  was  the  old  man's  preference  for  Wagner. 

"I  suppose  that  is  one  of  the  great  advantages  of 
living  in  a  big  city  like  this,"  he  said.  "You  have 
the  opera,  not  for  a  night  or  two,  as  we  did  sometimes 
in  Topeka,  if  we  were  lucky,  but  four  or  five  times  a 
week,  for  four  or  five  months  at  a  stretch.  Here  you 
don't  have  to  wait  till  the  opera  comes  around ;  it  is 
here,  and  you  can  go  as  often  as  yon  want." 

"Indeed  we  can't,"  she  returned,  laughing.  "I 
wish  we  could,  for  father  enjoys  it  so  much,  and  I 
am  sure  it  does  him  good.  But  we  can't  afford  it  ! 
When  you  knocked  at  the  door  just  now,  I  was  going 
over  our  accounts  to  see  how  we  were  coming  out  this 
month,  for  I  know  father  will  want  to  go  next  Satur 
day.  It's  the  'Meistersinger,'  you  know." 

"  No,  I  don't  know,"  Sartain  answered.  "  You  must 
remember  I've  been  three  years  in  Topeka,  and  before 


110  A   CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW 

that  I  was  four  winters  in  Providence ;  and  then  I 
wasn't  rich  enough  to  run  on  to  Boston  and  go  to  the 
opera  more  than  once  in  a  season. " 

"It's  a  pity  good  opera  is  so  dear,  isn't  it?"  she 
asked.  "Or  perhaps  it  would  be  better  if  only  very 
rich  people  really  cared  for  expensive  music." 

"  That  is  one  of  the  problems  to  be  solved  in  the 
future — how  to  prevent  art  from  being  the  monopoly 
of  the  plutocrat,"  he  replied,  finding  phrases  easily 
now,  since  he  had  written  many  an  article  on  the  theme, 
"and  especially  the  theatre  and  the  opera.  Archi 
tecture  the  man  in  the  street  can  enjoy  almost  as 
much  as  the  man  who  built  the  house,  and  in  time 
mural  decoration  will  be  applied  to  all  public  build 
ings,  including  the  railroad  stations,  so  that  everybody 
will  have  a  chance  to  see  good  painting.  But  just  how 
to  get  good  music  and  good  acting  for  the  man  who 
can't  pay  a  dollar  for  a  seat,  I  don't  see  yet.  If  the 
State  were  to  interfere,  I'm  afraid  the  arrangement 
of  the  repertory  would  be  the  result  of  '  pulls '  and  of 
'  inflooence.'  I  think  that  one  of  the  disadvantages 
of  limiting  wealth  will  be  discovered  to  be  that  we 
shall  then  deprive  ourselves  of  the  public  services  some 
rich  men  now  render  voluntarily  to  the  community. 
There's  that  man  in  Boston,  you  know,  who  supports 
an  orchestra,  and  the  opera  here  in  New  York  is  paid 
for  out  of  the  pockets  of  the  multi-millionaires  who 
own  the  boxes." 

"And  they  do  talk  so  loud  in  their  boxes,"  said 
Esther ;  "  I  don't  believe  they  can  really  care  for  music 
at  all — except,  maybe,  dance-music  at  their  balls." 

"  Wasn't  Cinderella  rather  fond  of  a  dance  herself  ?" 
he  asked.  "  If  I  remember  the  tale,  she  had  such  a 


A   CONFIDENT   TO-MOKKOW  111 

good  time  at  the  ball  that  she  outstayed  the  limits  set 
by  the  fairy  godmother.  Now  if  you  had  a  fairy  god 
mother,  you  could  go  to  the  opera  as  often  as  you 
chose." 

"  It  would  be  nice,  wouldn't  it?"  the  girl  returned, 
smiling  back  at  him.  "But,  you  see,  my  fairy  god 
mother  isn't  here.  She's  way  out  West,  and  she's  very 
old,  too,  and  I'm  afraid  she  is  very  feeble/' 

"  I  didn't  know  you  really  had  any  such  personage 
attached  to  your  train,"  he  declared. 

"  It's  my  grandmother,  I  mean,"  Esther  explained. 
"  She  is  almost  eighty,  and  she  lives  out  in  Wisconsin 
now,  and  she  has  been  bedridden  for  nearly  a  year. 
My  mother  died  before  I  was  ten,  and  she  Avas  an  only 
daughter,  and  so  grandma  was  always  very  fond  of  me. 
She  is  well  off,  too,  and  she  is  forever  sending  me 
pretty  things  —  jewelry,  sometimes,  and  dresses,  and 
sometimes  money,  so  that  I  can  get  what  I  want  most. 
That's  why  I  call  her  my  fairy  godmother.  And  she 
is  really  my  godmother  too." 

And  then  their  talk  turned  naturally  to  the  recol 
lections  of  their  youth.  She  told  him  where  she  had 
spent  her  childhood,  and  he  told  her  where  he  had 
passed  his.  She  described  the  loneliness  that  seized  her 
when  her  mother  died  suddenly,  and  he  described  his 
more  mature  sensations  when  he  lost  his  mother.  He 
was  left  all  alone,  and  she  had  her  father  still,  and  her 
father  seemed  to  be  very  strong,  so  Sartain  said.  Then 
she  expressed  her  fear  that  her  father  was  not  really 
robust ;  and  she  explained  how  it  was  that  he  refused 
to  take  proper  care  of  himself.  This  gave  her  a  chance 
to  set  her  father  right  in  the  young  man's  eyes  by  tell 
ing  Sartain  that  an  outbreak  like  that  at  the  Contem- 


112  A   CONFIDENT  TO-MORKOW 

porary  was  very  unusual,  and  that  ho  was  rarely  so 
violent ;  but  he  had  brooded  so  much  over  the  wrongs 
of  the  poor  that  it  made  him  mad  when  a  man  mis 
represented  them  in  the  way  Mr.  Gillingham  had  done. 
But  ordinarily  her  father  was  gentle  and  quiet,  and 
nobody  could  be  kinder.  Sartain  answered  that  Mr. 
Dircks  had  a  most  benevolent  aspect.  She  asserted 
that  her  father  had  never  given  her  a  cross  look,  even 
when  she  was  a  naughty  little  girl.  Sartain  refused 
to  believe  that  she  had  ever  been  a  naughty  girl. 
Esther  repeated  her  self -accusations,  and  protested 
that  she  had  been  very  naughty  sometimes.  This  led 
her  to  give  him  anecdotes  of  the  pranks  she  and  Dora 
and  Theo  had  played  at  the  boarding-school  where 
they  all  were.  Her  grandmother  had  paid  for  her 
schooling,  and  the  happiest  hours  of  her  life  had  been 
spent  in  the  one  large  room  that  she  and  the  twins 
had  occupied  together. 

Sartain  said,  "  Oh,  that's  how  it  is  you  know  Miss 
Dora  and  Miss  Theo  so  much  better  than  you  know 
Miss  Joan." 

"I  love  Johnny  dearly,"  Esther  returned,  "but  of 
course  I  don't  know  her  half  so  well  as  I  do  Dora  and 
Theo.  Johnny  is  very  handsome,  don't  you  think  ?" 

Sartain  was  not  quick-witted  and  he  was  not  sharp 
to  seize  the  subtleties  of  feminine  character,  but  now 
he  suspected  that  he  detected  a  different  note  in 
Esther's  voice.  And  yet  the  question  was  put  as 
though  she  really  wanted  his  opinion. 

"I  don't  know  that  I  should  call  her  handsome, 
exactly,"  he  answered.  "But  she  is  certainly  fine 
looking." 

"  You  would  think  her  handsomer,  I'm  sure,"  she 


A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW  113 

returned,  "if  only  she  didn't  dress  in  that  foolish  way. 
It's  absurd,  isn't  it,  to  see  a  girl  as  stout  as  she  is  wear 
tight  things  as  she  does  ?" 

Sartain  admitted  that  he  did  not  like  to  see  a  woman 
affect  man's  apparel. 

"  By-the-way,"  he  continued,  "speaking  of  Miss  Joan 
reminds  me.  The  other  evening  at  the  Contemporary, 
when  I  was  talking  to  her,  Mr.  Adams  was  called  away 
and  you  were  left  alone — do  you  remember  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,"  she  answered. 

"Well,  then,"  he  asked,  "why  didn't  you  get  up 
and  join  us — join  Miss  Joan,  I  mean?" 

"  Oh,  I  couldn't,"  she  replied. 

"I  don't  see  why  not,"  said  he.  "We  were  both 
looking  at  you  and  expecting  you  to  come  ;  at  least,  I 
was  hoping  you  would." 

"That's  just  it,"  she  responded,  "you  were  there." 

"Didn't  you  want  to  speak  to  me?"  he  asked,  in  ag 
grieved  astonishment. 

"You  wouldn't  understand  if  I  told  you  why,"  she 
declared. 

"  Try  me,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  it  wouldn't  do  at  all,"  she  returned.  "No 
girl  would  have  liked  it.  I  know  Johnny  wouldn't." 

"Wouldn't  what  ?"  he  asked. 

"No  girl  would  like  another  girl  to  join  her  when 
she  was  talking  to  a  man,"  she  explained.  "She 
would  think  I  wanted  to  get  him  away  from  her." 

"  Surely  Miss  Joan  couldn't  have  so  contemptible  an 
opinion  of  you  as  that !"  he  cried. 

"Couldn't  she?"  Esther  retorted.  "You  don't 
know  girls  if  you  think  so." 

"  No,"  he  answered,  gravely,  wholly  at  a  loss  to  un- 


114  A    COXFIDEXT   TO-MOIIROW 

derstand  so  extraordinary  a  phenomenon.  "No,  if 
girls  are  like  that,  I  don't  know  girls.  And  I  don't 
think  I  want  to  know  women  capable  of  harboring 
such  mean  thoughts." 

"  Oh,  we  are  all  alike  !"  Esther  declared. 

"  I'm  sure  you  wouldn't  be  guilty  of  such  a  thing," 
Sartain.  asserted. 

"You  may  be  sure  Johnny  will  never  join  you  and 
me  if  she  sees  us  talking  together  some  evening  at  the 
Contemporary  !"  was  Esther's  rejoinder. 

If  questioned,  Sartain  would  have  confessed  that 
these  subtleties  of  feminine  psychology  evaded  him ; 
they  interested  him  also,  and  he  felt  sure  that  he 
ought  to  study  the  matter  out — that  it  was  his  duty 
as  a  novelist  to  master  all  the  details  of  woman's  char 
acter.  For  the  moment  he  held  his  peace,  content  to 
be  with  this  one  woman  whom  he  loved  and  to  gaze  at 
her.  The  little  wisp  of  golden  hair  came  down  again, 
and  he  took  the  same  pleasure  in  the  pettish  gesture 
with  which  she  thrust  it  back. 

The  brief  twilight  of  NCAV  York  was  upon  them, 
and  the  room  was  beginning  to  darken.  The  silence 
lasted  so  long  that  Sartain  did  not  know  how  to 
break  it.  Then  he  heard  a  heavy  footfall  somewhere 
behind  him  and  a  door  opened. 

"  There's  father  now,"  cried  Esther  ;  "  and  it's  get 
ting  so  dark  here !" 

As  Mr.  Dircks  entered  the  room  his  daughter  struck 
a  match  and  lighted  the  two  gas-jets  over  a  table  be 
tween  the  windows. 

"Father,  here's  Mr.  Sartain,"  she  said. 

Sartain  rose  to  his  feet  and  faced  around  to  greet 
Mr.  Dircks. 


A    CONFIDENT   TO-MOUUOW  115 

"So  you  inquired  us  out  ?"  said  the  old  man,  whose 
tall  frame  seemed  to  Sartain  larger  than  ever  in  this 
small  room.  "We're  glad  to  see  you/'  and  he  held 
out  his  huge  hand  and  gave  his  visitor  a  hearty  grasp. 

The  room  was  scantily  furnished  although  it  could 
scarcely  be  called  bare.  Besides  the  rocking-chair 
Esther  had  occupied  and  the  chair  Sartain  had  taken, 
there  was  also  a  cane  settle  against  the  wall  opposite 
the  fireplace  ;  and  here  Dircks  sat  down. 

He  had  a  newspaper  in  his  left  hand,  the  forty-eight- 
page  Sunday  issue  of  the  Daily  Dial ;  and  now  he  raised 
this  up  and  said  to  his  daughter,  "I  found  a  piece  in 
the  paper  here  I'd  like  you  to  read  to  me,  Esther." 

"You  don't  want  me  to  read  it  aloud,  do  you, 
father  ?"  the  girl  asked,  as  she  took  the  newspaper 
from  him,  glancing  a  little  doubtfully  at  Sartain. 

"Why  not?"  her  father  answered.  "You'll  read 
it  beautifully.  Mr.  Sartain  will  be  glad  to  hear  you." 

"  Indeed  I  shall !"  cried  the  young  man. 

"  Oh,  very  well,"  she  responded,  "since  you  wish  it, 
father."  She  looked  at  the  place  Mr.  Dircks  had 
indicated.  "Why,  it's  poetry!"  she  declared. 

"And  better  than  most — at  least,  so  it  seemed  to 
me,"  her  father  returned.  "Generally  I  don't  read  the 
stuff,  but  that  piece  somehow  is  different.  You  read 
it,  and  you'll  see  there's  sense  to  it." 

Without  further  demur,  although  not  without  an 
other  deprecatory  glance  at  Sartain,  she  began  to  read 
a  couple  of  stanzas  quoted  in  the  middle  of  a  book 
review.  She  read  simply  and  with  intelligence.  Her 
voice  was  low  and  musical ;  and  it  seemed  to  Sartain 
that  her  modulations  were  exquisite.  This  is  what 
her  father  had  given  her  to  read  : 


11G  A   CONFIDENT  TO-MORKOW 

ALTRUISM 

A  tale  of  toil  that  never  is  done,  I  tell ; 

Of  life  where  love's  a  fleeting  wing 
Across  the  toiler's  murky  hell 

Of  endless,  cheerless  journeying  ; 
I  draw  to  thee  the  far-off  poor 
And  lay  their  sorrows  at  thy  door. 

Thou  shalt  not  rest  while  these  thy  kind 

Toil  hopelessly  in  solitude  ; 
Thou  shalt  not  leave  them  out  of  mind — 

They  must  be  reckoned  with.     The  food 
You  eat  shall  bitter  be 
While  law  robs  them  and  feedeth  thee. 

"  That's  true  I"  said  Dircks.  "  While  law  robs 
them  !  There's  lots  of  men  being  robbed  by  the  law 
every  day.  Cut  that  out  for  me,  Esther  ;  I'll  keep  it." 

Sartain  had  recognized  the  lines,  and  he  was  going 
to  tell  Dircks  who  their  author  was,  when  Esther  rose 
and  took  a  pair  of  scissors  from  the  mantel  -  piece. 
His  mind  was  called  off  to  record  again  the  grace  of 
all  her  movements,  which  he  involuntarily  likened  to 
those  of  a  humming-bird. 

Then  Dircks  broke  out  once  more,  ""While  law 
robs  them  !  That's  it.  I  can't  say  these  things  myself. 
I  feel  them,  but  I  can't  think  them  out.  And  so  when 
I  see  a  piece  in  the  paper  that  says  what  I've  been 
feeling,  I  cut  it  out  and  keep  it." 

"I  suppose  the  law  does  rob  some  men,"  said  Sar 
tain;  "but  then  we  shall  get  the  laws  to  our  liking 
some  day.  Perhaps  the  income-tax  Avill  come  first; 
they've  got  it  in  England,  you  know,  and  in  Switzer 
land.  Then  there  will  be  a  succession-tax,  properly 


A   CONFIDENT  TO-MOKBOW  117 

graduated  to  fall  most  heavily  on  the  very  wealthy. 
Maybe  that  will  prepare  the  way  for  a  limitation  of 
the  right  of  bequest ;  but  that's  in  the  future/' 

Mr.  Dircks  heard  him  eagerly.  Evidently  it  was 
with  deep  joy  that  the  old  man  listened  to  any  attack 
on  the  existing  order.  Apparently  also  he  was  not 
moved  by  any  theory  of  improvement,  but  rather  by 
resentment  against  society  as  it  was  constituted. 
Sartain  wondered  almost  whether  Dircks's  ardor  for 
reform  was  not  wholly  personal,  whether  it  was  not 
the  result  of  some  injustice  he  himself  had  suffered. 

"All  these  laws  you  want  are  good,  of  course — at 
least,  I  suppose  so,"  Dircks  declared,  with  a  beetling 
of  his  brows.  "But  maybe  the  people  who  are  being 
crushed  down  now  won't  wait  for  all  of  them  ;  may 
be  they  will  take  the  law  in  their  own  hands  some 
day." 

With  an  appealing  gesture  to  Sartain,  Esther  now 
sought  to  turn  the  talk. 

"  You  mustn't  be  so  violent,  father,"  she  inter 
vened.  "  I  should  think  you  had  had  enough  of  fight 
ing  in  the  war." 

Sartain  was  glad  to  come  to  her  assistance  promptly. 

"  So  you  were  a  soldier,  Mr.  Dircks  ?"  he  asked. 

"  Father  won't  talk  about  it,"  the  girl  continued, 
"but  he  served  all  through  the  war — and  he  has  a 
bullet  wound  in  his  arm  now." 

"  That's  all  over  now,"  the  old  man  declared — "  that's 
all  over.  And  what's  a  bullet  in  the  arm,  after  all  ?" 

"Father  doesn't  wear  a  little  bronze  button  like  the 
rest  of  the  old  soldiers,  and  he  never  parades  with  the 
old  Hags  on  Memorial  Day,"  said  Esther.  "  But  I'm  very 
proud  of  him  all  the  same,  if  he  isn't  at  all  proud  of 


118  A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW 

himself."  Then  she  went  to  her  father  and  petted 
him. 

"  My  father  served  in  a  Rhode  Island  battery," 
Sartain  was  glad  to  be  able  to  say.  "  And  in  the  war 
of  1812  my  grandfather  was  on  the  Constitution  when 
she  took  the  Guerriere." 

"It  isn't  nice  of  me  to  boast  against  you,"  she  re 
turned,  flashing  her  smile  at  him,  "  but  father's  grand 
father  fought  at  Lexington." 

"  Both  of  my  grandfathers  were  in  the  Revolution 
ary  War,"  Dircks  interrupted. 

"  But  I  wasn't  going  to  say  anything  about  the 
other  one,"  his  daughter  admitted,  laughingly. 

"  One  was  on  one  side  and  one  was  on  the  other," 
the  old  man  continued.  "My  mother's  father  was  at 
Lexington  and  afterwards  he  served  in  the  old  Conti 
nentals.  My  father's  father  was  a  Hessian." 

"I  never  tell  anybody  that!"  Esther  asserted; 
"  never  !  But  at  school,  in  our  history  lessons,  I  always 
let  out  about  the  one  at  Lexington." 

"  lie  was  a  Hessian  !"  Dircks  went  on  ;  "  bought 
and  sold  like  a  dog  !  He  was  leased  by  his  master  to 
another  man  to  fight  for  the  other  man,  and  if  he 
didn't  choose  to  fight  he  was  licked." 

"  And  I  suppose  he  remained  here  after  the  peace, 
as  so  many  of  the  Germans  did  ?"  suggested  Sartain. 
"And  that's  how  you  come  to  be  a  New  Englander 
with  so  foreign  a  name  as  Dircks — and  yet  that  sounds 
rather  Dutch  than  German,  I  think." 

"And  my  name  is  Hebrew,"  said  Esther;  "and  so 
is  father's  given  name,  Raphael." 

This  gave  Sartain  a  chance  to  explain  that  his  own 
family  name  was  probably  French,  and  that  it  was  de- 


A    CONFIDENT   TO-MOHROW  119 

rived  from  a  Huguenot  ancestor  expelled  from  France 
on  the  revocation  of  the  Edict  of  Xantes  more  than 
t\vo  centuries  ago. 

The  shades  had  not  been  drawn  down  when  the  gas 
was  lighted  ;  and  now  Sartain,  happening  to  look  out,, 
saw  that  it  was  already  dark.  He  rose  hastily  and 
apologized  for  having  made  so  long  a  call. 

"  Not  at  all/'  said  Dircks,  heartily.    "  Don't  hurry." 

When  Sartain  insisted,  the  old  man  added,  "If  you 
must  go,  come  again.  I  like  to  talk  to  you,  and  I  like 
to  hear  you  talk/' 

The  young  man  thanked  him  for  the  invitation  and 
shook  hands.  Then  he  turned  to  the  daughter. 

"We  are  always  at  home  on  Sunday  afternoons," 
she  said,  cordially. 

"I  shall  come  often — if  I  may,"  Sartain  responded. 

"  I  hope  you  will,"  she  assented.  Then  she  added  : 
"It  is  always  good  for  father  to  have  a  chat  with 
son  10  one  who  can  talk  about  the  things  he  is  inter 
ested  in." 


CHAPTER  IX 

IN  the  next  few  days  Sartain  recalled  his  talk  with 
Esther  very  often.  The  glimpse  of  her  childhood  that 
she  had  given  him  was  precious  to  him,  and  he  was  glad 
that  he  had  been  able  also  to  tell  her  about  his  mother 
and  about  his  own  youth.  He  thought  that  he  knew 
her  a  great  deal  better  for  that  long  exchange  of  confi 
dences,  and  he  hoped  that  she  knew  him  better  also. 

On  Saturday  he  had  a  brisk  little  note  from  Mr.  Viv 
ian,  inviting  him  to  eat  his  Thanksgiving  turkey  with 
them  on  the  coming  Thursday  at  half-past  seven,  and 
explaining  that  it  would  be  a  very  little  dinner,  as 
Dircks  and  his  daughter  and  Adams  would  be  the  only 
other  guests.  It  was  not  on  a  postal-card  that  Sartain 
accepted  this  invitation,  but  on  a  sheet  of  Japanese 
vellum  note-paper,  which  he  had  recently  purchased 
at  one  of  the  Oriental  stores. 

Vivian's  note  he  put  away  with  its  predecessor,  first 
reading  the  two  over  again,  and  remarking  on  the  care 
with  Avhich  they  were  written.  Both  in  expression  and 
in  penmanship  they  were  models  of  neatness.  The 
appearance  of  these  little  letters  was  like  that  of  the 
man  himself — it  was  the  very  perfection  of  conscien 
tious  finish. 

Then  it  came  to  Sartain,  strongly,  that  here  was  a 
most  dangerous  rival,  if  Vivian  were  really  resolved 


A    CONFIDENT    TO-MOKHOW  121 

upon  marrying  Esther.  The  novelist  was  no  longer  a 
young  man,  it  was  true,,  but  he  was  good-looking  still, 
Avcll  -  dressed  always,  and  well  -  preserved,  far  more 
youthful  in  appearance  than  his  actual  years.  When 
Sartain  set  himself  beside  Vivian  he  was  acutely  aware 
of  his  own  disadvantages.  Some  day  he  hoped  to  show 
the  world  what  was  in  him,  but  in  the  meanwhile  he 
was  a  raw  boy  without  fame  or  position  or  means. 
Mr.  Vivian  had  all  these  ;  he  was  also  an  accomplished 
man  of  the  Avorld ;  he  was  not  cursed  with  shyness  ; 
and  he  had  tact.  Sartain's  heart  sank  within  him  as 
he  set  down  the  list  of  Vivian's  superiorities,  and  yet 
he  took  courage  again  at  the  thought  that  after  all 
Vivian  was  older,  and  had  been  married  already,  and 
could  not  love  Esther  as  much  as  a  young  man  who 
had  all  the  career  of  his  manhood  still  before  him. 
Perhaps,  after  all,  Adams  was  really  more  to  be  feared 
than  Vivian. 

And  yet,  when  Sartain  was  shown  into  the  Vivians' 
parlor  on  Thanksgiving  evening,  and  the  host  came 
forward  to  greet  him,  the  young  man  could  not  but 
hold  the  elder  to  be  a  formidable  competitor.  Jeal 
ousy  lent  sharpness  to  Sartain's  examination  of  Vivian 
as  he  acknowledged  his  host's  cordial  greeting,  and 
it  was  with  a  satisfaction  he  knew  to  be  despicable 
that  he  marked  how  much  grayer  Vivian's  beard  was 
than  he  had  taken  it  to  be.  But  the  keen  face  had  a 
kindly  expression,  and  the  alert  eye  gave  the  new-comer 
a  welcoming  glance. 

"You  have  met  all  my  daughters,  haven't  you?" 
said  Mr.  Vivian  ;  and  Sartain  replied  that  he  had  had 
that  pleasure,  stiffening  himself  not  to  be  overwhelmed 
by  the  memory  of  the  unfortunate  postal-card  which 


122  A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW 

the  twins  knew  all  about,  and  by  the  recollection  of 
his  more  flagrant  rudeness  to  the  elder  daughter  at 
the  meeting  of  the  Contemporary  Club. 

He  had  bowed  to  the  twins,  making  some  inarticu 
late  remark,  and  they  severally  responded,  "  So  glad 
you  were  able  to  come,  Mr.  Sartain,"  and  "  Delighted 
to  meet  you  again,  Mr.  Sartain."  Then  they  resumed 
their  own  confab,  interrupted  by  his  arrival ;  and  in 
half  a  minute  they  were  again  giggling  away — a  little 
to  the  young  man's  discomfort,  for  he  feared  that  per 
haps  he  was  the  target  of  their  merriment. 

lie  turned  to  Johnny,  and  to  his  great  relief  she 
greeted  him  with  her  usual  heartiness,  and  set  him  at 
his  ease  at  once.  It  was  as  though  she  had  wholly 
forgotten  how  rudely  he  had  neglected  her  the  last 
time  they  had  met.  As  he  dropped  into  conversation 
with  her,  he  looked  at  her  with  genuine  admiration. 
In  evening -dress  she  was  really  almost  a  handsome 
woman ;  her  robust  figure  was  only  a  little  too  full  for 
her  height.  Her  attire  was  even  less  mannish  than  it 
had  been  at  the  Contemporary.  For  one  thing,  her 
sleeve  was  short  and  displayed  a  beautiful  forearm, 
which  led  Sartain  to  look  at  her  hand  for  the  first 
time ;  and  he  discovered  that  it,  too,  was  beautiful — a 
little  large,  perhaps,  and  strong  rather  than  delicate,  but 
finely  modelled  and  admirably  proportioned.  Sartain 
was  as  susceptible  as  most  young  men  to  the  influence 
of  sex  and  to  the  power  of  beauty  ;  and  yet  his  feeling 
towards  Johnny  was  that,  after  all,  she  was  a  good  fel 
low,  and  that  it  would  be  pleasant  to  be  friends  with  her. 

Before  they  had  settled  down  into  talk,  Vivian  got 
up  again  to  shake  hands  with  Adams,  who  nodded  to 
Sartain,  and  was  instantly  seized  by  the  twins. 


A    CONFIDENT   TO-MOHKO\V  123 

"As  we  arc  nil  here  now,"  said  Vivian,  "I  suppose 
we  may  as  well  have  dinner  served/'  He  went  to  the 
door  and  gave  an  order  to  the  white-capped  maid. 

Sartain  stared  at  Johnny  in  surprise.  "All  here  !" 
he  echoed,  blankly.  "Why,  I — I  thought  that  Miss 
Es  —  that  Mr.  Dircks  and  his  daughter  were  coming 
too  ?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  "  we  expected  them  ;  and  we 
are  all  so  disappointed  they  can't  come." 

"  Can't  come !"  Sartain  echoed  again,  his  spirits 
sinking  swiftly. 

"They  accepted  at  first,"  Johnny  explained,  "but 
yesterday  morning  Dora  had  a  letter  from  Esther  say 
ing  she  had  just  had  a  letter  from  Madison,  Wiscon 
sin,  with  news  of  her  grandmother's  illness.  The  old 
lady  is  very  feeble  and  probably  she  will  not  survive 
this  attack.  She  was  very  fond  of  Esther  —  I've  an 
idea  she  was  her  favorite  grandchild,  and  so  she  begged 
her  to  come  out  and  see  her  before  she  died.  Of 
course,  Esther  and  her  father  packed  up  at  once,  and 
they  must  be  in  Madison  by  this  time.  I  only  hope 
that  she  will  find  her  grandmother  alive — but  it  won't 
be  a  cheerful  Thanksgiving  for  her  anyway,  will  it  ?" 

"No,"  said  he,  slowly,  "it  will  not  be  cheerful  for 
her,"  and  he  thought  how  cheerless  his  own  Thanks 
giving  dinner  would  be  now  that  he  was  disappointed 
in  her  presence. 

The  mood  of  taciturnity  to  which  he  was  often  a 
prey  seized  him  again,  and  the  conversation  would 
have  flagged  more  than  once  if  Johnny  had  not  chatted 
along. 

As  they  rose  to  pass  into  the  dining-room,  Vivian 
said  to  Sartain,  "Will  you  take  my  daughter  in  ?" 


124  A   CONFIDENT   TO-MOUHOW 

Tlien  he  turned  to  Adams  and  the  twins  and  asked, 
"  Which  of  you  goes  in  with  me  ?" 

"  You  can  go  in  by  your  lonesome,  papa,"  returned 
Dorothea. 

"  We  cannot  desert  Madams,"  added  Theodora. 

With  that  the  twins  each  took  one  of  the  artist's 
arms,  and  sent  their  father  on  before  them  by  himself. 
Johnny  and  Sartain  brought  up  the  rear. 

It  was  the  first  time  that  Sartain  had  ever  been  in 
vited  to  a  dinner  so  elegantly  served.  In  spite  of  his 
sharp  pang  of  disappointment  that  Esther  Dircks  was 
not  to  sit  at  the  table  with  him  he  was  awake  to  all 
the  details  of  the  service.  The  table  was  square,  and 
it  was  lighted  only  by  three  candles  in  the  candelabra 
at  each  corner.  There  was  a  superb  basket  of  flowers 
in  the  centre,  and  here  and  there  were  little  silver 
dishes  with  olives,  nuts,  candied  fruit,  and  tiny  frosted 
cakes. 

Johnny  took  the  seat  at  the  head  of  the  table  and 
indicated  to  Sartain  the  chair  on  her  right.  Mr.  Vivian 
stood  at  the  foot,  while  Adams  hesitated. 

"Your  place  is  on  Johnny's  left  there,"  said  the 
host.  "I  forget  how  you  two  little  pests  are  to  sit," 
he  added,  glancing  from  one  to  the  other  of  the  twins. 

Dora  and  Theo  looked  at  the  two  unoccupied  places, 
one  next  to  Adams  and  the  other  next  to  Sartain, 
and  then  they  looked  at  each  other  and  laughed. 

"Let's  draw  lots,"  cried  one  of  them. 

"I'll  go  you!"  returned  the  other,  leaning  over 
and  picking  out  a  couple  of  salted  nuts.  Placing  her 
hands  behind  her  for  a  moment,  she  extended  her 
closed  fists  to  her  sister.  "Now  choose,"  she  said. 
"If  you  get  the  chestnut,  you  sit  next  to  Madams." 


A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW  125 

It  was  Theo  who  presented  this  dilemma  to  her 
sister,  and  while  Dora  was  making  her  choice  it  struck 
Sartain  that  neither  of  the  twins  at  all  relished  his 
society,  and  that  he  was  obviously  assigned  to  Johnny's 
care  ;  and  with  a  swift  blush  he  asked  himself  if  she 
were  entertaining  him  merely  as  one  of  the  disagreeable 
duties  of  the  hostess.  The  question  was  salutary  at 
that  minute,  for  it  gave  him  an  incentive  to  put  his 
best  foot  forward,  and  to  show  them  that  he  was  quite 
as  good  company  as  Adams. 

Finally  Dora  chose  the  right  hand  —  the  chestnut 
was  in  the  left;  so  it  was  Theo  who  sat  between  her 
father  and  the  artist,  and  Dora  who  took  the  chair 
beside  Sartain. 

As  they  were  unfolding  their  napkins,  Johnny  had 
a  chance  to  call  Adams's  attention  to  the  eternal  fit 
ness  of  things,  in  that  the  one  of  the  twins  who  got 
the  chestnut  was  to  have  him,  to  which  the  artist  re 
plied  that  if  he  were  really  a  chestnut  he  had  come 
that  evening  to  be  stuffed  with  turkey. 

Sartain,  left  out  of  this  interchange  of  obvious  jest, 
ate  his  oysters  in  silence,  and  then  forced  himself  to 
speak  to  the  girl  on  his  right. 

"  This  little  dinner  of  six  is  very  like  the  one  your 
father  has  described  in  the  first  chapter  of  In  Search 
of  Himself,"  he  began.  "  Don't  you  think  so  ?" 

Theodora  answered  promptly,  "  I  don't  know,"  and 
looked  across  the  table  at  Dorothea. 

"And  I  don't  know  either,"  the  other  girl  added. 
"  You  see,  we  have  neither  of  us  ever  read  any  of  papa's 
books." 

Sartain  stared  from  one  to  the  other  in  intense  sur 
prise.  "  Never  read  your  father's  books  ?"  he  repeated. 


12G  A    CONFIDENT   TO-MOKKOW 

"  The  fact  is,  AVG  like  papa  too  much  to  read  what  he 
writes,"  said  Tlieo. 

"  And  if  we  had  read  them  and  didn't  happen  to 
like  them,  I  don't  know  what  we  should  do  !"  Dora 
declared. 

Sartain  turned  to  Vivian,  who  nodded  gravely  and 
agreed.  "  It  is  a  fact.  They  never  do  read  my  books  ; 
yet  they  can  read  and  write  themselves — after  a  fash 
ion.  I  don't  say  that  they  can  spell,  but  then  I  never 
could  myself  until  I  began  to  correct  proof.  Besides, 
what  could  I  expect  ?  I  sent  them  to  a  school  which 
professed  to  provide  '  a  collegiate  education ' — so  I  sup 
pose  I  had  no  right  to  demand  orthography." 

"  It's  a  mistake  to  teach  girls  how  to  read  and  write," 
broke  in  Adams.  ' '  It  unfits  them  for  society,  where 
ignorance  is  bliss  and  where  that  girl  is  most  attractive 
who  is  most  willing  to  ask  questions  and  to  let  men 
tell  her  things." 

"  I  didn't  go  to  the  same  school  as  Theoand  Dora," 
said  Johnny.  "At  my  school  we  had  a  debating 
society,  and  the  last  question  we  discussed  before  I 
was  graduated  was  '  Does  a  college  education  unfit  a 
man  for  matrimony  ?' ': 

Adams  laughed.  "  I  think  that  was  a  fair  thrust," 
he  admitted.  "  All  the  same,  I  believe  that  the  one 
insult  no  woman  will  ever  forgive  is  an  attempt  to 
reason  with  her." 

Johnny  looked  at  him  gravely  and  there  came  a 
little  twinkle  in  her  eye  as  she  answered.  "  You  ought 
to  rejoice,  Madams,  that  you  are  in  no  danger  of  ever 
proffering  such  an  insult." 

Sartain  listened  in  silence,  observing  that  Vivian 
liked  to  lead  Adams  on,  and  that  he  enjoyed  the 


A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORHOW  127 

crackle  of  jesting,  although  he  rarely  took  part  in  it 
himself.  After  the  artist  had  been  setting  forth  certain 
extreme  views  at  great  length  and  with  much  corus 
cation  of  paradox,  all  the  comment  the  host  made  was 
to  say,  slyly,  "  What  a  pity  it  is  that  Adams  lacks  the 
gift  of  dialogue." 

So  long  as  Esther  Dircks  Avas  not  present,  Sartain 
did  not  mind  how  successfully  Adams  might  show  off  ; 
and  her  absence  was  in  his  thoughts  whenever  he  let 
his  mind  wander  from  the  immediate  topic  of  the  con 
versation.  He  had  no  need  to  exert  himself  to  keep 
up  the  talk.  Johnny  and  Mr.  Vivian  brought  him  in 
now  and  then  just  sufficiently  to  keep  him  from  feel 
ing  left  out.  He  was  aware  that  they  both  had  tact, 
and  that  they  were  using  it  in  their  relations  with 
him  ;  and  although  he  was  grateful  for  this,  it  an 
noyed  him  none  the  less.  He  wished  more  fervently 
than  ever  that  Esther  was  there,  since  she  was  truly 
sympathetic.  In  her  presence  he  expanded  freely,  and 
she  had  no  need  of  tact. 

A  green-turtle  soup  had  followed  the  oysters ;  and 
a  pompano  succeeded  the  soup.  Then  came  broiled 
mushrooms,  after  which  there  were  cutlets,  cooked  in 
a  shell  of  paste  with  a  delicious  Avhite  sauce. 

"  Gracious,  papa/'  cried  Theo,  "  I've  given  up  drink 
ing  water  with  my  meals,  and  I  eat  toast  now  and  no 
bread,  but  how  can  we  help  getting  fatter  and  fatter 
if  Johnny  Avill  have  cotelettes  d  la  Soubise?" 

"These  cutlets  are  fine  !"  said  the  artist.  "Have 
you  a  new  Chief  now,  or  a  Blue  String  only  ?" 

"I  don't  know  that  we  can  even  call  her  a  Cordon 
Bleu,"  Vivian  explained.  "  She  is  a  Swede,  but  Johnny 
tries  to  keep  her  up  to  the  mark.  And  as  a  result  I'm 


128  A   CONFIDENT  TO-MOUHOW 

afraid  I  shall  have  to  go  over  to  Carlsbad  again  this 
summer." 

"Then  we  must  start  early  and  get  to  London  be 
fore  the  season's  over/'  Dora  insisted. 

"And  after  your  cure  we  can  go  to  the  Engadine 
again,  can't  we  ?"  asked  Theo.  "I  dote  on  Saint  Mo- 
ritz  in  August." 

"There  is  the  disadvantage  of  going  to  Europe," 
expounded  Vivian,  knitting  Sartain.  into  the  conver 
sation  ;  "  these  flibbertigibbets  of  mine  keep  me  jump 
ing  from  Zeca  to  Mecca,  as  the  Spaniards  say.  And 
I  am  getting  too  old  to  be  trotted  up  and  down  the 
globe.  I  like  to  spend  my  summers  tranquilly." 

Sartain  was  able  here  to  frame  a  sentence  express 
ing  his  belief  that  Mr.  Vivian  was  very  fortunate  in  his 
travelling  companions. 

"There,  Madams  !"  said  Johnny.  "You  never  pay 
us  compliments  like  that." 

"  The  fact  is,"  said  Adams,  gravely,  "  a  man  must 
make  his  choice  between  Truth  and  Tact.  He  can't 
pretend  to  both.  Now  I  have  preferred  Truth  !" 

The  service  was  so  silent  and  so  swift  that  the  guests 
never  gave  it  a  thought ;  and  it  was  this  simplicity  of 
luxury  that  most  impressed  Sartain.  He  did  not  doubt 
that  the  silver  and  the  glass  and  the  linen  were  all  ex 
pensive,  but  he  had  to  admit  that  they  were  perfectly 
unpretentious.  Everything  was  excellent  in  its  kind, 
and  nothing  was  showy  enough  to  attract  attention. 
As  the  turkey  had  followed  the  cutlets,  and  as  it  had 
been  succeeded  by  a  ham  and  a  mayonnaise  of  celery 
and  lettuce,  Sartain  felt  that  here  was  the  quiet  per 
fection  of  living.  Wealth  had  its  advantages,  if  it 
could  lubricate  the  wheels  of  existence  thus.  The 


A   CONFIDENT  TO-MORROW  129 

young  fellow  had  often  longed  for  riches  that  he  might 
do  good  with  them  ;  now,  almost  for  the  first  time,  he 
wished  for  wealth  for  his  own  sake,  that  he  might 
have  rooms  comfortably  furnished  and  meals  artisti 
cally  served.  He  projected  his  vision  into  the  future, 
and  imagined  himself  and  Esther  sitting  at  a  table 
like  this  in  an  apartment  like  that.  Then  he  remem 
bered  that  it  was  Thanksgiving  Day,  and  that  in  many 
a  tenement-house  of  New  York  there  were  old  men, 
worn  women,  and  little  children  who  had  gone  without 
food.  The  morsel  in  his  own  mouth  choked  him  al 
most  ;  and  he  felt  for  the  moment  as  though  the  boun 
tiful  repast  at  which  he  sat  had  been  stolen  from  the 
hungry. 

After  the  salad  there  was  a  mince-pie  ;  and  that  gave 
place  to  a  mould  of  fancy  ice-cream,  representing  a 
hen  setting  upon  a  nest  of  spun  sugar.  The  talk  of 
the  twins,  Johnny,  and  Adams  sparkled  along,  but  Sar- 
tain  could  not  cast  off  the  sombre  shadow  that  had 
fallen  over  him.  He  was  well  aware  that  his  taciturn 
ity  was  out  of  place,  but  he  could  scarcely  control  it. 
During  the  last  course  he  hardly  spoke  at  all. 

Finally  Johnny  rose,  and  the  rest  of  them  stood 
up  also.  Sartain  saw  Adams  offer  his  arm  to  Theo 
while  Dora  took  her  father's,  so  he  presented  his  to 
Johnny. 

The  men  escorted  the  girls  to  the  parlor,  and  then 
returned  to  the  dining-room,  whereupon  Vivian  in 
vited  Adams  and  Sartain  to  take  the  chairs  next  to 
him.  The  maid  passed  the  coffee  and  the  liqueurs. 

For  a  minute  or  two  nothing  was  said ;  and  then 
Sartain  broke  the  silence,  finding  it  easier  to  master 
his  melancholy  when  there  were  no  women  present. 


130  A  COXFIDEXT  TO-MORROW 

"Do  you  suppose  that  Miss  Dircks's  grandmother 
is  likely  to  die  soon  ?"  he  asked. 

"She  is  not  likely  to  get  well,  I  think/'  Vivian 
answered. 

"  Pretty  well  fixed,  the  old  lady  is,  isn't  she  ?"  Adams 
queried. 

"  I  have  an  impression  that  she  has  some  money,"  the 
host  responded.  "  How  much  there  may  be  I  cannot 
say.  I  hope  that  Esther  will  come  in  for  a  share  of  it." 

"  I  guess  even  a  little  would  be  welcome  in  Stuyve- 
sant  Square,"  said  the  artist.  "  It's  going  to  be  a 
pretty  cold  winter  for  the  engravers.  Process  is 
knocking  them  out,  one  after  another.  I  don't  won 
der  the  old  man  has  soured  on  the  world.  It's  enough 
to  make  a  saint  swear,  to  work  hard,  to  be  one  of  the 
best  men  in  the  business,  and  then  have  the  business 
go  from  under  you,  as  his  has  done." 

"  Mr.  Dircks  is  one  of  the  finest  engravers  we  have, 
isn't  he  ?"  asked  Sartain ;  "one  of  the  leaders  of  the 
American  school  ?" 

"  His  touch  is  exquisite,"  Adams  asserted — "  simply 
exquisite ;  and  the  more  feeling  there  is  in  a  drawing 
the  better  he  does  it.  You  wouldn't  think  that  now, 
from  the  look  of  him,  would  you  ?  He's  a  funny  old 
bird,  with  that  long  white  beard  of  his  and  those  im 
mense  eyebrows.  You'd  never  imagine  he  was  daft 
about  Wagner's  operas  either.  He  looks  more  like  a 
benevolent  revivalist  who  would  lead  in  singing  the 
'Sweet  By -and -By' — or  else  like  a  bunco-steerer,  I 
don't  know  which." 

"  There  is  a  marked  contrast  between  his  almost 
uncouth  appearance,"  Vivian  admitted,  "  and  the  deli 
cacy  of  his  artistic  perceptions." 


A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW  131 

Suddenly  it  struck  Sartain  that  it  was  odd  he  and 
Adams  and  Vivian  should  be  dissecting  Raphael  Dircks 
thus  coldly,  when  all  three  of  them  were  in  love  with 
the  old  man's  daughter. 

"  Did  you  know  that  Mr.  Dircks  had  been  in  the 
army  ?"  he  inquired,  desiring  to  divert  the  discussion. 

"  He  was  in  the  artillery/'  Vivian  explained.  "Curi 
ously  enough,  he  was  in  command  of  the  very  battery 
at  Gettysburg  I  was  ordered  to  support." 

Sartain  looked  at  Vivian  in  surprise.  Here  was  the 
first  time  he  had  heard  that  his  host  had  seen  service 
in  the  war. 

"  We  got  fighting  our  battles  over  one  day  last  win 
ter/'  Vivian  went  on,  "and  I  found  that  we  had  spent 
a  good  part  of  that  very  hot  Fourth  of  July  side  by 
side.  But  I  discovered  also  that  there  is  something 
about  his  war  record  that  he  hates  to  recall.  Have 
you  remarked  how  he  detests  those  in  power  and  how 
he  sympathizes  with  those  in  danger,  whether  they 
are  really  guilty  or  not  ?  Well,  sometimes  I  have 
surmised  that  perhaps  he  got  into  a  mess  of  some 
sort ;  he  is  perfectly  honest,  of  course,  but  he  is  as  in 
nocent  as  a  babe,  and  he  has  a  violent  temper.  Now 
he  may  have  been  unjustly  accused  and  unable  to  clear 
himself  ;  and  that  might  imbitter  him." 

"You  do  not  suppose  that  his  daughter  knows 
this  ?"  Sartain  asked,  with  the  picture  of  Esther  be 
fore  him  as  she  waited  on  her  father  that  drizzling 
afternoon  ten  days  before  in  Stuyvesant  Square. 

"I  don't  know  it  myself.  I  don't  believe  that 
there  is  anything  really  wrong  with  Dircks,"  Vivian 
returned;  "but  whatever  it  may  be,  his  daughter 
doesn't  suspect  it." 


132  A   CONFIDENT  TO-MORROW 

"  Of  course,  if  the  old  man  was  cashiered  or  fired 
out  of  the  army  one  way  or  another/'  said  Adams, 
"it's  no  wonder  he's  got  his  mad  up." 

"I  like  the  old  man  in  spite  of  his  peculiarities 
— or  perhaps  because  of  them,  I  don't  know  which," 
Vivian  declared,  "but  I  cannot  pretend  to  understand 
him.  He  is  a  congeries  of  contradictions.  That's 
what  makes  him  so  individual.  But  theH,  if  we  have 
eyes  to  see  it,  everybody  is  individual." 

"I  guess  he's  what  you  call  a  character,  if  that's 
what  you  mean,"  the  artist  admitted. 

Sartain  smiled  and  suggested  that  he  himself  had 
fancied  Dircks  would  be  "copy." 

"Oh  yes,"  Vivian  returned,  with  a  bitter  sigh,  "he 
is  'copy,'  of  course,  and  so  are  you,  and  so  am  I. 
That  is  the  worst  of  our  craft — everything  is  '  copy.' 
Nothing  is  sacred  to  a  man  of  letters  nowadays  ;  he 
stands  ready  to  find  '  literary  material '  in  his  own  wed 
ding-day,  or  in  his  mother's  death-bed.  If  we  meet  a 
beautiful  woman,  we  are  thinking  how  we  can  put  her 
into  words.  If  we  make  love  to  her,  we  do  it  with  one  fin 
ger  on  our  own  pulse,  so  that  we  can  reproduce  the  effect 
in  the  next  love-scene  we  compose.  Sometimes  I  have 
wanted  to  liken  a  novelist's  head  to  a  kodak,  in  which  he 
is  incessantly  storing  away  negatives  to  be  developed  at 
leisure.  After  a  man  has  written  a  dozen  novels  he  is 
incapable  of  anything  but  self-analysis.  He  is  forever 
prying  into  his  own  motives  and  emotions.  He  takes 
his  art  with  him  everywhere  ;  he  cannot  get  away  from 
it ;  it  is  his  Old  Man  of  the  Sea  ;  it  is  his  Nemesis  ;  it 
is  the  price  he  has  to  pay  for  the  joy  of  creation." 

Sartain  confessed  his  own  increasing  tendency  to 
keep  himself  under  the  microscope. 


A   CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW  133 

"It  is  a  disgusting  trick,  is  it  not  ?"  asked  Vivian, 
in  a  gush  of  self -contempt.  "  I  wish  I  could  get  back 
the  power  of  doing  things  simply  and  for  their  own 
sake,  and  without  the  consciousness  of  the  immense 
complexity  of  my  motives  for  the  most  trifling  act." 

"As  you  say,"  Sartain  commented,  "this  treating 
of  all  the  sacred  emotions  merely  as  so  much  material 
for  our  art  —  that  is  the  price  we  pay  for  the  joy  of 
creation.  It's  a  high  price,  no  doubt — but  then  is  any 
price  too  high  for  the  immense  delight  the  craftsman 
feels  as  his  work  grows  before  him  and  he  knows  that 
it  is  good  ?" 

"That's  all  very  well,"  retorted  the  artist.  "But 
sometimes  he  knows  it  is  good  when  it  isn't — when  it's 
mighty  bad,  indeed.  It  isn't  the  men  who  do  the  best 
work  that  are  most  easily  satisfied  with  what  they  do 
—not  by  a  long  shot,  it  isn't." 

"'Of  course  not,"  said  the  elder  novelist,  "and  yet 
Sartain  here  is  right  in  thinking  that  the  man  who 
does  the  best  work  gets  the  most  enjoyment  out  of  it. 
And  this,  even  though  he  knows  that  he  is  far  from 
attaining  perfection.  Don't  you  remember  the  anec 
dote  of  Thorwaldsen  in  his  old  age  ?" 

"  I  don't  care  much  for  Thorwaldsen,"  the  artist  re 
sponded.  "  He  was  a  neo-Greek — and  that's  a  bastard 
style.  Every  fellow  ought  to  begin  where  the  fellow 
before  him  left  off,  and  not  go  harking  back  after  dead 
men's  bones." 

"  With  your  gracious  permission,"  the  host  retorted, 
laughing  lightly,  "  I  will  tell  you  the  anecdote  as  well 
as  I  can  recall  it.  In  Thorwaldsen's  old  age  a  friend 
entered  his  studio  in  Rome  and  found  him  seated  de 
spondently  before  the  figure  he  had  just  finished  mod- 


134  A   CONFIDENT   TO-MOKKOW 

elling.  The  friend  asked  him  why  he  was  sorrowful, 
and  if  it  was  because  he  had  not  been  able  to  realize  his 
ideal.  The  old  sculptor  answered  that,  on  the  con 
trary,  he  grieved  because  he  had  now,  for  the  first  time 
in  his  life,  been  able  to  realize  his  ideal ;  and  he  ex 
plained  that  in  his  youth  he  could  never  satisfy  him 
self,  and  that  he  had  always  seen  how  imperfect  even 
his  best  works  were.  Now,  at  last,  his  craftsmanship 
was  equal  to  his  conception ;  soon  the  cunning  hand 
would  surpass  the  failing  brain,  and  therefore  he  per 
ceived  that  he  must  be  already  on  the  verge  of  his 
decline." 

"  The  old  boy  knew  a  thing  or  two,  didn't  he  ?" 
cried  the  artist,  admiringly.  "  I  didn't  think  it  of 
him.  I  like  the  anecdote  better  than  any  of  his  other 
works." 

When  the  three  men  went  back  to  the  drawing-room 
the  twins  crossed  over  to  the  piano. 

"Now,  Madams,"  cried  Theo,  "you  must  sing  us 
something." 

The  artist  joined  them.  "Have  you  heard Queenie 
Dougherty  this  year  ?"  he  asked. 

"  "Who  is  Queenie  Dougherty  ?"  inquired  Dora. 

"  Who  are  you,  if  you  don't  know  who  she  is  ?" 
Adams  retorted.  "  Queenie  Dougherty  is  the  Irish 
Empress.  She  is  a  great  artist  —  and  a  pretty  big 
woman  too.  She  has  a  voice  like  the  bulls  of  Bashan 
—but  she  is  a  singer  from  Sing  Sing,  and  she  gets  all 
there  is  out  of  a  song,  I  can  tell  you.  Here's  her  lat 
est."  With  that  the  artist  sat  at  the  piano  and  sang 
for  them  an  ingenuously  contrived  lyric,  the  refrain  of 
which  was,  "  But  he  hadn't  the  price  in  his  clothes  !" 

When  he  had  made  an  end,  amid  their  laughing 


A   CONFIDENT  TO-MORROW  135 

applause,  Vivian  said,  "  You  must  ask  Sartain  to  sing 
you  something.  He  used  to  be  on  the  glee  club,  so 
he  told  me,  and  he  must  know  all  the  college  songs." 

So  they  got  out  the  book  and  Sartain  sang.  He 
had  a  mellow  barytone,  and  he  had  profited  by  the 
teaching  he  had  received  in  the  glee  club.  They  were 
surprised  that  he  sang  so  well,  and  that  his  voice  was 
so  fine.  They  begged  him  to  give  them  something 
else.  He  looked  through  a  pile  of  music  and  he  found 
the  "  Bedouin  Song." 

"  Could  you  play  the  accompaniment  of  this  ?"  he 
asked. 

Johnny  took  her  seat  at  the  piano  and  Sartain  stood 
behind  her.  The  song  suited  his  voice,  and  he  knew 
it,  and  that  helped  him  to  sing  it  well.  But  when  he 
came  to  the  end — 

"  Open  the  door  of  thy  heart, 

And  open  thy  chamber  door, 
And  my  kisses  shall  teach  thy  lips 
The  love  that  shall  fade  no  more, 

"  Till  the  Sun  grows  cold, 
And  tlie  Stars  are  old, 
And  the  leaves  of  tJie  Judgment  Book  unfold!" 

— then  he  knew  that  never  hitherto  had  he  sung  it  so 
well,  for  the  face  of  Esther  Dircks  was  before  his  eyes, 
and  it  was  his  yearning  for  her  he  was  giving  voice  to, 
and  his  love  that  could  never  die. 

Johnny  did  not  look  around  when  the  song  was  over, 
nor  did  she  join  in  the  compliments  of  the  others. 
She  sat  at  the  piano,  with  her  back  to  him,  saying 
nothing ;  but  she  softly  played  once  and  again  the 
final  notes  of  the  air. 


136  A   CONFIDENT  TO-MOKROW 

Sartain  was  much  pleased  with  the  unexpected  im 
pression  he  had  produced.  He  resolved  to  take  his 
leave  at  once  before  he  spoiled  it  by  another  return  of 
his  shyness. 

"  That's  very  nice,  that  little  chansonette  of  yours," 
said  Adams. 

"  It  was  very  well  sung,"  Vivian  declared,  cordial 
ly — "with  taste  as  well  as  feeling." 

Then  Sartain  seized  the  opportunity,  and  said  that 
he  was  glad  they  liked  it,  and  that  he  had  enjoyed 
himself  very  much,  and  that  he  must  be  going  now. 
He  shook  hands  with  them  all,  and  Johnny  swung 
around  on  the  piano-stool  to  say  good-night.  There 
was  a  queer  expression  on  her  face,  he  fancied,  but 
he  made  no  effort  to  guess  what  it  was. 


CHAPTER  X 

Oisr  the  Saturday  afternoon  of  the  week  after  the 
Thanksgiving  dinner,  Sartain  went  again  to  the  tall 
apartment-house  facing  Central  Park.  He  wished  to 
pay  his  digestion-visit  promptly,  but  he  wanted  also  to 
get  the  latest  news  from  Esther  Dircks.  As  it  happened 
that  day,  there  were  half  a  dozen  other  callers ;  but  he 
accomplished  his  double  purpose,  for  as  he  said  good 
bye  to  one  of  the  twins  he  managed  to  learn  that  Mr. 
Dircks  had  returned  to  New  York,  leaving  his  daugh 
ter  at  Madison,  where  her  grandmother  still  lingered. 
He  was  told,  also,  that  it  might  be  several  weeks  before 
Esther  would  be  back,  for,  although  the  old  lady  could 
not  recover,  she  had  an  astonishing  vitality. 

He  settled  down  to  work  on  the  new  novel,  and  the 
manuscript  of  A  Wolf  at  the  Door  began  to  expand 
rapidly.  He  wrote  in  his  own  little  room  for  two  or 
three  hours  every  evening,  and  sometimes  until  after 
midnight ;  then,  before  going  to  bed,  he  went  out  for 
half  an  hour's  brisk  walk.  The  story  opened  before 
him  most  promisingly.  The  earlier  chapters  were  de 
voted  to  the  hero's  brilliant  oration  at  a  club,  which 
Sartain  called  the  "Cosmos."  Then  came  a  supper 
at  a  fashionable  lady's  house  after  a  theatre-party — 
and  in  the  description  of  this  repast  he  utilized  cer 
tain  of  his  impressions  of  the  Thanksgiving  dinner  at 


138  A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORKOW 

Vivian's.  This  late  supper  was  intended  to  contrast 
picturesquely  with  a  mid-day  Sunday  dinner  in  a  cheap 
boarding-house — such  a  contrast  as  Balzac  was  wont 
to  present  so  adroitly.  The  heroine  was  to  be  an  ideal 
ized  portrait  of  Esther ;  and  he  was  quite  willing  that 
she  should  see  herself  in  his  pages  some  day  and  know 
that  it  was  thus  he  saw  her. 

One  afternoon,  a  few  days  before  Christmas,  he  re 
ceived  a  note  from  Adams,  asking  him  if  he  were  free 
to  dine  that  evening.  "No  boiled  shirt  needed  ;  come 
in  your  overalls,"  said  a  postscript.  "'Go  as  you 
please'  is  my  motto." 

Sartain  dashed  off  a  line  of  acceptance.  Generally 
he  Avas  slow  in  granting  his  friendship,  and  always  he 
expected  others  to  make  the  necessary  advance  to  him. 
With  Adams,  however,  he  was  ready  to  go  half  way 
towards  an  intimacy.  Beneath  the  bravura  manner  of 
the  artist,  and  under  his  bravado  tone,  and  behind  all 
his  talking  for  effect,  Sartain  had  detected  the  true 
man.  He  held  that  Adams  had  genuine  simplicity  and 
natural  kindliness  —  qualities  he  greatly  appreciated. 
He  thought  that  the  painter  liked  him,  and  he  was 
still  uncertain  whether  Vivian  really  did,  or  whether 
the  elder  novelist  had  not  merely  accepted  him  as  one 
of  a  class,  to  all  the  members  of  which  Vivian  made  a 
habit  of  being  unfailingly  courteous  and  considerate. 

This  doubt  was  lingering  in  his  mind  when  Adams 
came  for  him  that  evening,  a  little  before  seven ;  and 
perhaps  it  lurked  unformulated  in  some  remarks  to 
the  artist  in  which  he  praised  Vivian's  good  manners. 

"  Good  manners  ?"  Adams  echoed.  "  You  had  better 
believe  they  are  good.  I  used  to  think  they  were  too 
good  to  be  true." 


A   CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW  139 

"  And  you  don't  think  so  now  ?"  asked  Sartain. 

"  Now  I  know  they  are,"  the  painter  responded. 
"  But  they  are  not  for  external  use  only.  Vivian 
makes  a  habit  of  attaching  to  him  by  bonds  of  grati 
tude  for  favors  received  all  the  rising  young  men  of 
letters  in  the  country.  They  tell  me  that  he  writes 
one  of  his  clever  little  notes  to  every  man  who  reviews 
one  of  his  books — and  if  the  fellow  who  did  the  notice 
is  young,  he  takes  it  as  a  great  compliment  to  himself 
and  as  a  proof  that  his  critical  faculty  is  singularly 
acute." 

"  That  seems  to  me  to  be — well — self-seeking,"  com 
mented  Sartain,  "and  quite  unworthy  of  a  man  of 
Vivian's  high  rank  as  an  author." 

"No,"  Adams  answered,  "it  isn't,  really,  for  he's  per 
fectly  sincere  always.  He  never  says  what  he  doesn't 
think.  He  praises  these  young  fellows  and  lends  them 
a  leg  up  because  he  is  really  kindly.  I've  known  him 
to  take  lots  of  trouble  for  a  man  who  was  dying — and 
I  found  that  out  only  by  accident.  No,  he  likes  to 
scatter  benefits ;  it  is  perfectly  natural  for  him  to  do 
a  good  turn  to  everybody.  But  I  guess  he  knows  that 
the  exercise  of  these  generous  inclinations  of  his  helps 
to  keep  him  solid  with  the  boys." 

Sartain  then  ventured  to  express  his  own  doubt  as 
to  whether  he  himself  in  Vivian's  eyes  was  an  indi 
vidual  or  only  a  type. 

"Oh,  he  likes  you  too,"  explained  the  artist.  "I've 
heard  him  say  so — and  you  can  always  rely  on  what  he 
says.  lie  thinks  you  are  a  curious  specimen  of  an 
Easterner  with  a  Western  veneer,  that's  true ;  but  he 
also  loves  you  for  yourself  alone.  At  bottom,  Vivian 
is  a  white  man — as  white  as  they  make  'em,  too.  And 


140  A   CONFIDENT  TO-MORROW 

I  guess  he  doesn't  have  any  too  good  a  time  with  those 
three  red-headed  daughters  of  his." 

"  Why,  I  thought  they  were  the  happiest  family  I 
had  ever  met !"  cried  Sartain. 

"Well,  there's  always  a  cat  and  a  dog  in  every 
Happy  Family  I've  ever  seen  at  the  circus,"  Adams 
retorted.  "  And  I  guess  they  have  cat-and-dog  times 
at  the  Vivians'  now  and  then.  Those  twins  haven't 
got  red  hair  for  nothing,  you  know." 

Sartain  expressed  his  great  surprise  at  this  suggest 
ion,  as  the  girls  had  always  seemed  to  him  hearty  and 
full  of  fun. 

"Those  are  their  company  manners  only,"  Adams 
returned.  "  They  get  quite  morbid  sometimes  ;  and 
it's  then  they  have  their  scraps.  There's  nothing  like 
a  real  monkey-and-parrot  row  to  clear  the  air  and  re 
store  the  moral  tone." 

"  Is  Miss  Joan  morbid  also  ?"  Sartain  asked. 

"  Johnny's  the  best  of  them,"  the  artist  answered. 
"  She's  her  father's  daughter,  she  is.  She's  got  a  lot 
of  the  manly  virtues,  that  girl.  For  one  thing,  she 
can  be  a  stanch  friend.  She's  the  sort  of  woman  a 
fellow  could  go  to  for  comfort  if  he  were  in  trouble. 
She  is  naturally  very  kindly,  too.  You  know  my  defi 
nition  of  true  politeness  ?" 

Sartain  had  to  admit  that  he  did  not  know  this. 

"I  call  it  mine,"  continued  Adams,  "but  of  course 
you  will  discover  that  it  is  really  a  plagiarism — true 
politeness  is  the  outward  and  visible  sign  of  an  inward 
and  spiritual  grace.  Now  that's  the  kind  of  polite 
ness  Johnny  has  in  spite  of  all  her  masculine  bad 
manners.  She's  a  good  fellow.  And  she  knows  how 
to  house-keep,  doesn't  she  ?  That  was  a  flue  dinner 


A   CONFIDENT  TO-MORROW  141 

we  had  on  Thanksgiving — a  good  deal  better  than  the 
dinner  you're  going  to  have  to-night,  I  can  tell  you." 

They  had  walked  to  Broadway  in  the  beginning  of 
the  first  snow-storm  of  the  winter,  and  as  they  turned 
into  Twenty  -  third  Street,  on  their  way  to  Sixth 
Avenue,  the  snow  was  coming  down  in  thick  flakes. 
The  broad  sidewalks  were  not  yet  emptied  of  the  itin 
erant  venders  of  cheap  Christmas  toys — poor  fellows 
who  stood  along  the  curb-stone  and  swung  their  arms 
to  keep  warm  if  they  could,  and  kept  crying  monot 
onously,  "Ten  cents  each!  Three  for  a  quarter!" 
The  great  shops  were  still  open,  some  of  them,  for  the 
holiday  season  was  at  hand,  and  Christmas  greens  al 
ready  decked  a  window  here  and  there. 

"  Where  are  you  taking  me  ?"  asked  Sartain,  as  they 
neared  Sixth  Avenue,  where  the  elevated  trains  were 
pounding  overhead,  each  with  its  white  feather  trailing 
down  over  the  shoulders  of  the  locomotive. 

"Just  look  at  that!"  cried  the  artist.  "There's 
an  arrangement  in  gray  for  you — that  steam  and  this 
snow  and  the  electric  light  !  That's  the  kind  of  thing 
that  makes  New  York  a  fount  of  joy  to  the  man  who 
can  keep  his  eyes  open." 

"I  suppose  it  is  unlike  what  you  see  anywhere  else," 
Sartain  rejoined ;  "  steam  and  electricity  and  an  iron 
bridge  miles  long,  and  the  traffic  of  a  great  city  under 
neath.  I  wonder  if  Ruskin  would  not  call  it  a  vision 
of  hell." 

"Very  likely  he  would/'  the  painter  answered 
promptly.  "  Ruskin  would  do  anything  ;  he  even  calls 
himself  an  art  critic  !  But  all  the  same,  this  is  just 
the  sort  of  thing  the  old  yawper  praised  when  Turner 
tried  to  paint  it  as  '  Speed,  Steam,  and  Storm.' ' 


142  A    CONFIDENT  TO-MORROW 

The  wind  blew  sharply  down  Sixth  Avenue,  and 
when  they  reached  the  other  side  they  were  swathed  in 
snow  shaken  from  the  platforms  of  the  elevated  rail 
road.  Soon  they  turned  down  one  of  the  side  streets, 
and  Adams  conducted  his  companion  up  the  stoop  of 
a  little  brick  house,  three  or  four  doors  from  the  cor 
ner.  They  pushed  through  the  glazed  door  and  passed 
before  a  high  desk  at  which  a  handsome,  white-haired 
lady  was  sitting. 

"Ah,  Monsieur  Adan,"  said  she,  smiling,  "il  y  a 
Men  longtemps  qu'on  ne  vous  voit  id." 

"  Ce  soir  je  vous  amene  un  nouveau  client,"  Adams 
responded,  indicating  Sartain.  "  Quel  satane  temps? 
N'est-cepasf 

With  that  they  passed  into  the  front  room,  the  ar 
tist  remarking  to  his  companion,  "I  always  swap  a 
foreign  phrase  or  two  with  the  old  lady.  It  goes  fur 
ther  than  tips  to  the  head-waiter.  I  don't  know  her 
dago  diaJect,  but  in  the  parleyvoo  vocabulary  I  can 
make  out/' 

Sartain  saw  that  this  was  like  any  of  the  other  Italian 
restaurants  he  had  been  to  in  Boston.  The  head-wait 
er  bustled  up  and  welcomed  Adams  cordially,  and  or 
dered  a  subordinate  to  freshen  up  a  table  just  vacated 
in  one  of  the  windows. 

The  two  young  fellows  settled  themselves  at  once, 
and  the  head-waiter  brought  them  a  bottle  of  claret. 
Then  a  slim  Italian  youth  appeared  with  two  plates 
of  thin  soup,  and  with  a  dish  of  grated  cheese  to  be 
sprinkled  into  the  watery  compound  in  the  vain  hope 
of  giving  it  a  little  more  substance. 

"  They  say  this  is  called  the  Fried  Cat,  after  a  little 
restaurant  in  the  Quarter,"  said  Adams. 


T1IK    HEAU-WAITEK    KKOUGIIT  THEM  A   BOTTLE   OF   CLAKET 


A   CONFIDEKT  TO-MORROW  143 

Sartain  knew  that  by  this  was  meant  the  Latin  Quar 
ter  in  Paris,  and  he  thrilled  that  he  was  associating 
with  an  artist  intimate  enough  with  this  famed  region 
to  contract  its  name  thus  familiarly.  He  did  not  wish 
to  appear  too  ignorant  of  Parisian  eating-houses,  and 
so  he  spoke  up.  "  I  met  a  man  in  Topeka  last  winter 
who  had  been  studying  in  Paris — at  Julien's,  I  think — 
and  he  told  me  that  the  place  he  went  to  was  called 
The  Hole  in  the  Wall." 

"Never  heard  of  it,"  the  painter  responded.  "But 
the  Fried  Cat  was  a  real  place,  and  it  got  its  name  be 
cause  whenever  we  ordered  rabbit  we  always  made  them 
show  us  the  cat's  skin,  for  fear  they  might  ring  in  rats 
on  us.  It  didn't  matter  much  what  the  ingredients 
were  so  long  as  the  taste  of  it  was  all  right.  We  were 
all  pretty  hard  up  those  days — I  was,  for  one.  As  the 
boys  used,  to  say,  it's  the  devil  to  have  a  beer  income 
and  a  champagne  taste.  And  even  here  in  New  York 
it's  policy  to  keep  up  your  liking  for  Croton  extra  sec." 

This  encouraged  Sartain  to  ask  Adams  all  about  his 
life  in  Paris  during  the  two  years  the  painter  had  spent 
at  the  Beaux-Arts.  This  subject  lasted  them  almost 
to  the  end  of  the  dinner. 

Then  Adams  looked  around  the  two  little  rooms  of 
the  restaurant  and  said,  "  There  are  not  many  here 
to-night.  There's  Clarence  Shields  over  there  in 
the  corner — and  Jerry  Quinn,  too.  You've  heard  of 
him  ?" 

The  young  man  who  had  been  on  a  newspaper  in 
Topeka  for  three  years  recognized  these  names  at 
once.' 

"I  suppose  the  thin  one  is  Shields  ?"  he  inquired. 

"No,"  was  the  answer,  "the  thin  one  is  Jerry." 


144  A   CONFIDENT  TO-MOEROW 

"  That  isn't  his  real  name,  is  it  ?"  Sartain  asked. 
"I've  read  lots  of  his  comic  copy — and  some  of  it  is 
pretty  good,  especially  the  Irish  dialect  poems.  That's 
how  he  came  to  take  the  name,  I  suppose." 

"He  took  the  name  when  he  was  baptized,"  the 
artist  returned,  "and  he  was  christened  Jerry,  too,  and 
not  Jeremiah,  and  he  isn't  Irish  at  all,  either.  He's 
from  Maine,  I  believe.  Shields,  now,  is  Irish." 

"He's  the  one  who  looks  like  a  parish  priest  ?"  was 
the  new-comer's  next  question.  "I  should  never  have 
thought  that  so  chunky  a  person  could  have  written 
lyrics  as  airy  as  his." 

While  they  were  thus  discussing  the  personal  ap 
pearance  of  the  men  at  the  other  table,  Shields  and 
Quinn  made  ready  to  depart.  They  had  been  sitting 
with  their  backs  to  Adams.  Now  they  caught  sight 
of  him  and  came  over. 

"  What's  the  good  word  with  you  ?"  asked  the  portly 
Shields,  who  wore  a  shabby  black  coat. 

Adams  introduced  Sartain  to  Shields  and  to  Quinn, 
telling  them  that  the  new-comer  had  been  on  a  Western 
paper,  and  now  had  a  job  with  Carington  &  Company. 
Then  he  ordered  a  fresh  package  of  cigarettes,  and 
suggested  that  they  have  their  smoke  out  at  his  table. 

Adams  mentioned  that  Sartain  was  a  friend  of  Mr. 
Vivian's,  and  said  to  Shields,  "  You  don't  go  to  Viv 
ian's  now,  do  you  ?  And  you  used  to." 

"No,"  answered  the  poet,  simply.  "  You  see,  I  got 
drunk  there  one  night  by  mistake." 

Then  he  took  the  chair  nearest  to  Sartain.  "  So  it's 
with  Carington  you  are  ?"  he  began,  with  more  than  a 
hint  of  a  brogue  in  his  pleasant  and  cultivated  voice. 
"Do  yon  know  now  if  they've  any  departmental  work 


A   CONFIDENT  TO-MORROW  145 

they  want    done    there  —  any  art    criticism,  for   in 
stance  ?" 

Sartain  had  to  declare  that  he  was  afraid  that  the 
staff  of  Carington  &  Company  was  complete. 

"Perhaps  there's  an  opening  on  Manhattan  now," 
Jerry  Qninn  broke  in.  He  was  a  man  of  thirty,  tall 
and  thin.  He  had  a  hatchet  face  and  a  pronounced 
down-east  accent.  ' '  I  hear  there's  been  another  shake- 
up  in  the  office.  But  Manhattan  is  really  a  wasted 
opportunity.  I'm  sure  there's  a  big  chance  for  a  paper 
written  by  New-Yorkers  for  New-Yorkers.  But  no 
body  they've  had  on  it  yet  has  had  any  gumption.  I 
don't  know  who's  going  to  run  it  next,  but  I've  heard 
they  were  cutting  down  their  column  rates  to  five 
dollars." 

"  I've  a  poem  here  the  Arctic  Monthly  has  declined," 
remarked  Shields,  taking  a  folded  paper  from  the 
pocket  of  his  shiny  coat.  "  It's  a  month,  or  maybe  two, 
now,  since  I  laid  eyes  on  Manhattan.  Read  that  for  me, 
Jerry,  my  boy,  and  see  if  you  think  it  will  do  for  them." 

The  down-easter  took  the  manuscript  and  read  it 
carefully,  while  the  author  helped  himself  to  another 
cigarette. 

"I  shouldn't  wonder  if  you  could  sell  them  that," 
Jerry  Quinn  declared,  returning  the  sheet  to  the  writer. 
"  But  these  lines  are  all  pretty  long.  Seems  to  me,  if 
I  was  going  to  sell  that  poem  where  they  pay  space- 
rates,  I'd  cut  every  one  of  these  lines  in  half  and 
double  up  the  price  on  them." 

"It's  a  great  big  head  you  have,  Jerry,"  cried  the 
poet  in  admiration.     "  I'll  copy  it  out  in  the  morning, 
and  if  they  take  it,  I'll  have  you  to  dinner  here  with 
me." 
10 


146  A   CONFIDENT   TO-MORKOW 

Jerry  Quinn  laughed.  "  Tell  you  what  you  ought 
to  do,  Clarry  :  you  ought  to  retain  me  as  your  advance- 
agent,  and  give  me  a  commission  on  all  the  contracts 
I  put  you  up  to." 

"It's  a  steady  desk  on  that  same  Manhattan  I'd 
like,"  returned  the  poet.  "And  if  they  want  copy, 
I'm  the  man  for  them,  I'm  thinking.  I  can  write  off 
hand  any  part  of  the  whole  history  of  the  world  with 
out  looking  at  a  book.  I  won't  say  that  it  will  be 
absolutely  accurate  —  of  course  not,  nobody  is  abso 
lutely  accurate — but  it  will  be  near  enough  for  a  news 
paper,  anyway.  What  is  accuracy,  after  all  ?  Isn't  it 
the  only  virtue  of  the  Philistines  ?" 

Adams  intervened  here.  "  What  is  a  Philistine, 
after  all  ?" 

"  A  Philistine  ?"  echoed  Shields.  "Well,  now,  I'm 
thinking  that  a  Philistine  is  a  man  who  calls  me  a 
Philistine." 

There  was  a  general  laugh  at  this,  in  which  Adams 
joined.  Then  he  retorted  :  "That's  not  my  defini 
tion.  A  Philistine  is  a  man  who  gets  the  better  of  me 
in  an  argument." 

Sartain  came  into  the  conversation.  "A  concrete 
example  of  the  Philistine,"  he  suggested,  "is  the 
man  who  believes  that  Bacon  wrote  'Hamlet'  and 
'Othello!'" 

"But  I  have  always  maintained  Bacon  was  Shake 
speare,"  cried  Adams.  "  The  bard  led  a  double  life, 
that's  all." 

"  It's  the  letters  of  Junius,  I  believe,  Bacon  wrote," 
added  Shields,  falling  into  the  joke. 

"  And  of  course  Bacon  Avas  the  Man  in  the  Iron 
Mask,"  said  Sartain,  conscious  of  a  sense  of  effort. 


A   CONFIDENT  TO-MORROW  147 

"  And  probably  Bacon  was  the  unknown  who  struck 
Billy  Patterson/'  Adams  added. 

"How  much  do  you  suppose  he  struck  him  for?" 
asked  Jerry. 

"  It's  on  the  financial  side  of  the  transaction  Jerry 
has  his  mind  fixed  always,  I've  noticed/'  Shields  com 
mented. 

Sartain  was  quite  aware  that  this  conversation  was 
a  little  forced,  and  that  those  who  took  part  in  it  were 
straining.  But  none  the  less  he  liked  it,  and  he  liked 
to  be  in  the  company  of  men  like  Adams  and  Shields 
and  Quinn. 

The  little  group  soon  broke  up ;  and  Adams  and 
Sartain  tramped  through  the  snow  to  Broadway  to 
gether,  where  they  separated.  The  young  novelist 
thanked  the  artist  for  the  pleasant  evening  he  had 
had.  He  wanted  to  say  that  he  felt  as  though  he 
were  making  his  first  appearance  in  the  New  York 
circle  which  most  closely  corresponded  to  that  in  Paris 
celebrated  by  Henry  Miirger ;  but  he  could  not  find 
quite  the  right  words  to  phrase  his  thought,  and  he 
left  it  unsaid. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  new  year  brought  no  change  to  Sartain.  He 
kept  longing  to  see  Esther  Dircks  again  ;  he  thought 
of  her  very  often ;  he  went  on  idealizing  her  as  the 
heroine  of  his  new  novel.  He  had  only  to  close  his 
eyes  and  her  image  arose  before  him.  So  familiar 
was  it  to  him  that  he  was  greatly  surprised  when  one 
day  it  occurred  to  him  that  as  yet  he  had  spoken  to 
the  woman  he  loved  only  three  times  in  all.  It  seemed 
to  him  as  though  he  had  loved  her  always.  It  was 
true  also  that  neither  at  the  Vivians'  that  first  after 
noon  nor  at  the  meeting  of  the  Contemporary  had  he 
had  a  chance  to  talk  to  her  alone  ;  this  precious  op 
portunity  had  been  vouchsafed  to  him  only  once. 
When  he  recalled  their  delicious  interchange  of  con 
fidences  that  Sunday  twilight  in  Stuyvesant  Square, 
he  was  impatient  for  her  return  to  the  city  that  he 
might  attempt  to  renew  this  delight. 

But  it  was  six  weeks  that  she  remained  away  by  the 
bedside  of  her  grandmother,,  and  during  these  two- 
score  days  and  more  Sartain  went  about  his  daily  work 
as  usual,  and  took  his  customary  share  of  the  pleasures 
of  the  town.  His  was  a  steady  flame,  but  it  was  no 
devouring  conflagration  of  the  senses,  no  overwhelm 
ing  passion.  His  love  for  Esther  did  not  take  away 
his  appetite  or  keep  him  awake  at  night.  His  un- 


A   CONFIDENT   TO-ilOEEOW  149 

conquerable  resolve  was  to  win  her  for  his  wife ;  she 
was  the  woman  he  wanted  and  meant  to  have  if  she 
would  take  him.  But  his  devotion  to  her  did  not 
interfere  with  the  regular  routine  of  his.  existence. 

At  night  he  worked  unceasingly  on  his  new  novel, 
which  grew  rapidly  under  his  hands,  and  he  did  his 
work  faithfully  every  day  at  the  office  ;  but  he  had 
discovered  that  the  affairs  of  Carington  &  Company 
were  not  running  smoothly.  Salaries  were  still  paid 
regularly,  yet  there  were  not  lacking  signs  that  the 
money  to  meet  the  weekly  bills  had  been  raised  with 
difficulty.  Sartaiii  was  still  able  to  have  sent  to  Dircks 
not  a  few  of  the  small  jobs  of  engraving  that  were  ab 
solutely  needed.  In  thus  aiding  Esther's  father  it 
seemed  to  the  young  man  almost  as  though  he  were 
bringing  himself  in  some  way  closer  to  her — although, 
of  course,  he  never  expected  her  to  know  that  he  had 
had  anything  to  do  with  her  father's  orders. 

It  was  through  the  art-editor  that  he  received  the 
first  news  of  Esther's  probable  return.  A  process- 
block  had  been  sent  to  Mr.  Dircks  to  retouch,  with  a 
request  that  he  return  it  within  the  week.  This  was 
about  the  middle  of  January ;  and  the  next  day  the  en 
graver  had  come  in  to  tell  the  art-editor  that  he  could 
not  do  the  work  within  the  required  time,  as  he  had 
to  go  West — having  just  received  a  telegram  from  his 
daughter  announcing  the  death  of  her  grandmother. 

Sartain  calculated  that  Dircks  and  his  daughter 
would  return  early  in  the  following  week,  and  that 
they  certainly  would  be  back  in  Stuyvesant  Square 
by  the  Sunday  after.  He  determined  to  call  then. 

Yet  when  the  day  came  he  hesitated.  He  asked 
himself  whether  he  was  intimate  enough  with  Esther 


150  A    CONFIDENT  TO-MORROW 

to  intrude  upon  her  within  a  fortnight  after  the  death 
of  her  grandmother.  He  kept  up  the  debate  with 
himself  for  the  five  minutes  it  took  him  to  walk  from 
Irving  Place  to  Stuyvesant  Square ;  and  the  decision 
was  given  for  the  affirmative,  not  from  any  logical 
reason,  but  simply  because  the  young  man  felt  that  he 
must  see  her  again  and  as  soon  as  possible. 

It  was  the  gruff  voice  of  her  father  through  the 
speaking-tube  that  bade  him  come  up ;  and  when  he 
entered  the  front  room  where  he  had  last  seen  her, 
almost  two  months  earlier,  he  found  only  Eaphael 
Dircks. 

It  was  early  in  the  afternoon,  and  the  sun  shone 
warmly  although  it  was  a  bitter  January  day.  In  the 
clear  light  the  bareness  of  the  sitting-room  was  more 
obvious  than  it  had  been  at  his  earlier  visit.  There 
was  only  a  small  square  of  worn  carpet  in  the  centre 
of  the  floor.  There  was  only  one  small  table.  There 
were  no  ornaments,  except  on  the  mantel-piece  three 
silver  photograph-frames  containing  portraits  of  Mr. 
Vivian's  daughters. 

Her  father  stood  with  his  back  to  the  fireplace, 
where  a  small  hard-coal  fire  glowed  dully.  His  long 
frame,  topped  by  his  head  with  its  full  beard  and  its 
mass  of  straggling  white  hair,  made  the  room  appear 
smaller  than  it  was.  He  held  the  Sunday  supplement 
of  the  Gotham  Gazette  in  his  hand,  and  he  had  a  corn 
cob  pipe  in  his  mouth. 

When  he  saw  Sartain  he  laid  aside  the  pipe  and  the 
paper,  and  greeted  his  visitor  cordially,  gripping  the 
new-comer's  hand  in  his  own  huge  and  hairy  paw. 

Sartain  inquired  at  once  about  Esther.  "Has  not 
your  daughter  returned  ?"  he  asked,  anxiously. 


A    CONFIDENT    TOMORROW  151 

11  Yes/'  was  the  sententious  answer,  as  the  old  man 
took  up  his  pipe,  knocked  out  the  ashes,  and  began  to 
refill  it  from  a  pouch  on  the  table. 

"  Isn't  she  well  to-day  ?"  was  the  young  man's  next 
question. 

"  Yes,"  responded  her  father,  lighting  the  pipe  with 
a  match. 

Sartain  said  nothing  while  Dircks  puffed  for  a  few 
seconds  in  silence.  Generally,  he  was  able  to  talk 
easily  with  her  father,  since  the  old  man  seemed  to 
be  glad  to  have  some  one  else  bear  the  burden  of  the 
conversation  and  express  his  thoughts  for  him.  To 
day  the  two  monosyllabic  responses  chilled  the  young 
man's  desire  to  talk,  and  left  him  with  nothing  to 
say. 

Finally  Mr.  Dircks  raised  his  slow,  black  eyes,  and 
looked  at  Sartaiu  from  under  his  beetling  brows. 

"  She's  in  there,"  the  old  man  began,  indicating 
the  rear  room  by  a  movement  of  his  broad  shoulder. 
"  She's  lying  down." 

"  I  suppose  she  must  be  very  much  fatigued  with 
the  strain  of  the  past  weeks,"  said  Sartain. 

"  She's  tired,"  her  father  continued.  "  But  she'll 
come  in  soon ;  meantime  you  read  that,"  and  he 
picked  up  the  newspaper  and  held  it  out  to  his  visitor 
with  his  big  thumb  spread  over  the  paragraph  he 
wished  Sartain  to  peruse. 

The  young  man  skimmed  the  few  lines  of  print  with 
the  speed  of  a  practised  newspaper  reader.  He  recog 
nized  them  as  a  quotation  from  an  article  in  the  Arctic 
Monthly  of  that  month. 

"  Eead  it  out,"  Dircks  repeated  when  he  caught 
Sartain's  eye. 


152  A   CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW 

The  young  man  remembered  the  poem  Esther  had 
been  bidden  to  read  aloud  the  last  time  he  had  called. 
He  fancied  now  that  the  old  man  was  a  little  slow  of 
apprehension,  and  liked  to  absorb  anything  he  ap 
proved  by  the  ear  as  well  as  by  the  eye. 

What  Sartain  read  was  this  :  ' '  The  good  American 
is  typified  for  us  in  the  past  by  Washington  and  Frank 
lin,  by  Emerson  and  Lincoln,  men  of  simple  tastes, 
all  of  them,  accepting  plain  living  that  they  might 
have  high  thinking.  The  bad  American  is  with  us  in 
the  present  in  the  persons  of  the  wrecker  of  railroads, 
the  manipulator  of  trusts,  and  the  briber  of  legislative 
committees — the  man  who  is  willing  to  make  money 
anyhow,  so  long  as  he  makes  a  great  deal.  It  is  for 
us  to  decide  which  type  is  to  dominate  our  civilization 
in  the  future.  Our  present  aristocracy  of  wealth  has 
neither  breeding  nor  common-sense  nor  patriotism. 
It  has  vanity  without  pride.  It  is  ostentatious  and 
vulgar  and  trivial.  It  is  snobbish  to  a  degree  unknown 
in  the  older  countries  from  which  it  has  borrowed  its 
outworn  idols.  Any  one  who  has  read  the  newspapers 
for  the  last  ten  years  can  name  more  than  one  rich 
man,  and  more  than  one  rich  man's  son,  who  has  been 
sowing  dragon's  teeth,  sure  to  spring  up  armed  men  in 
due  season.  The  career  of  these  men  of  great  wealth 
is  a  direct  incentive  to  riot  and  rapine,  to  nihilism  and 
to  anarchy." 

When  Sartain  had  finished  reading,  he  looked  up  at 
Dircks,  and  for  the  first  time  he  remarked  the  extreme 
whiteness  of  the  Avhites  of  the  old  man's  eyes. 

"  That's  good  !"  Dircks  declared.  "  I  ain't  more 
notional  than  any  other  man,  but  I  know  what's  right 
and  what's  wrong.  And  it  ain't  right  for  one  man  to 


A   CONFIDENT  TO-MOBBOW  153 

have  money  to  waste  when  another  man  hasn't  any  to 
pay  for  food  !" 

"  It  is  not  easy  to  say  just  how  we  should  control 
the  distribution  of  wealth/'  Sartain  returned.  "But 
what  most  annoys  me  is  the  foolish  way  in  which  so 
many  of  these  rich  men's  sons  waste  their  inheritance. 
I  should  think  they  would  like  to  have  some  fun  with 
their  money — buying  books  and  pictures  and  statuary, 
or  building  public  fountains,  or  making  parks  for  the 
poor  people.  There's  one  of  them  now  has  a  paper, 
called  Manhattan,  and  he  doesn't  know  what  to  do 
with  it.  I  think  there's  an  idea  in  it — a  New  York 
weekly,  just  for  New- Yorkers,  ought  to  succeed." 

11  You  would  like  to  edit  a  paper  ?"  asked  Dircks, 
with  another  lowering  of  his  eyebrows,  as  he  gazed 
intently  at  Sartain. 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  should  make  a  good  editor," 
said  the  young  man,  modestly.  "  But  I  should  dearly 
love  to  try  my  hand  at  it.  And  I  believe  that  there 
is  really  an  opening  now  for  a  paper  like  Manhattan, 
but  the  young  dude  who  has  been  paying  the  bills  will 
tire  of  it  sooner  or  later,  and  then  sell  it  or  stop  it." 

"  If  he'd  been  losing  on  it  he'd  sell  it  cheap,"  was 
Dircks's  only  comment. 

Sartain  wondered  if  Esther  in  the  next  room  could 
hear  what  they  had  been  saying,  if  she  had  recognized 
his  voice,  if  that  was  why  she  did  not  come  in,  and  if 
she  would  think  his  visit  that  afternoon  an  unpardon 
able  assumption. 

As  though  her  father  had  read  his  thoughts,  Dircks 
turned  heavily  in  his  chair  and  called  to  her.  "Es 
ther  !" 

"Yes,  father,"  was  the  response  ;  and  it  was  with  a 


154  A   CONFIDENT  TO-MOKROW 

thrill  of  pleasure  that  the  young  man  heard  her  voice 
again. 

"  Here's  Mr.  Sartain  come  to  visit  Avith  you  !"  the 
old  man  said. 

"  Oh  !"  she  cried.  "  Well— tell  him  I'll  be  there  in 
a  minute." 

But  it  was  nearly  five  minutes  before  she  kept  her 
word.  And  when  the  door  opened  at  last  and  she  came 
gliding  in,  he  was  shocked  to  see  how  worn  she  was 
and  how  thin.  In  her  simple  black  dress  she  was  paler 
than  ever,  and  slighter.  The  sunlight  glinted  from 
the  ashen  gold  of  her  hair,  and  she  appeared  to  Sartain 
more  ethereal  than  before,  more  like  some  rare  orchid, 
disdainful  of  any  connection  with  the  soil. 

His  heart  leaped  within  him  as  his  hand  touched 
hers.  He  wished  that  he  could  fold  her  in  his  arms 
and  bid  her  lie  there,  secure  and  protected.  What  he 
said  was  that  he  hoped  she  had  not  overfatigned  her 
self.  She  answered  that  she  had  been  very  tired,  but 
that  she  had  been  resting  the  two  days  since  she  came 
home.  Sartain  had  no  liking  for  the  details  of  disease 
and  death ;  but  he  felt  the  need  of  breaking  the  silence, 
and  he  asked  when  her  grandmother  had  died  —  on 
what  day  ? 

She  told  him  ;  and  then  she  went  on  to  tell  him  all 
about  her  grandmother's  last  hours,  and  how  the  old 
lady  was  very  fond  of  her  and  very  good  to  her.  In 
telling  him  all  these  things,  she  broke  down  once  or 
twice,  and  wept  a  little  ;  and  then  he  would  beg  her 
not  to  continue,  if  it  was  painful  to  her ;  and  she  would 
insist,  informing  him  that  it  was  a  relief  to  talk  about 
her  grandmother,  who  was  so  kind  and  sweet.  She 
confided  to  him  that,  much  as  she  should  miss  the  old 


A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW  155 

lady,  she  could  not  wish  her  alive  again,  since  it  would 
only  prolong  her  suffering  fruitlessly.  And  then  she 
declared  that  this  seemed  to  her  so  heartless  that  she 
could  not  forgive  herself  for  holding  such  an  opin 
ion. 

He  informed  her  that  he  understood  exactly  what 
she  meant  and  how  she  felt ;  and  he  tried  to  encour 
age  her  and  to  make  her  believe  that  she  had  done 
her  duty  fully.  He  assured  her  that  her  presence 
must  have  been  a  great  comfort  to  the  old  lady;  and 
she  confessed  that  this  was  so,  since  her  grandmother 
did  not  want  her  out  of  sight  towards  the  end,  and 
had  followed  her  about  the  room  with  her  eyes  after 
she  had  lost  the  power  of  speech.  Then  he  begged 
her  to  believe  that  it  would  be  a  satisfaction  to  her  al 
ways  to  remember  that  she  had  been  present  during  her 
grandmother's  last  hours,  and  that  she  had  done  all 
she  could  to  comfort  and  sustain  the  dying  woman. 
She  admitted  that  this  was  true  enough,  but  still  she 
reproached  herself  for  her  thought. 

He  assured  her  that  this  was  merely  morbid,  and 
that  she  should  throw  off  such  strained  fancies.  Her 
first  duty  now,  so  he  continued,  was  to  herself — and 
to  her  father,  of  course.  She  must  rest  and  regain 
her  strength.  She  ought  to  take  very  good  care  of 
herself  during  the  remainder  of  the  winter,  as  the 
climate  of  New  York  was  so  treacherous.  Especially 
ought  she  to  take  life  easily  until  she  had  wholly  re 
covered  her  former  health  and  vigor ;  she  should  be 
very  careful  not  to  overtask  herself. 

Then  she  told  him  how  good  Johnny  had  been  in 
agreeing  to  do  her  reading  for  her  at  Bellevue  Hos 
pital. 


156  A   CONFIDENT  TO-MOEEOW 

"I  did  not  know  you  went  to  Bellevue?"  he  declared. 

"  Oh  yes/'  she  answered,  "  Dora  and  Theo  and  I 
belong  to  a  Ten — a  Ten  of  the  King's  Daughters,  you 
know.  And  we  promised  this  fall  to  go  to  Bellevue 
two  afternoons  a  week  to  read  to  the  convalescents. 
And  while  I've  been  away  Johnny  has  taken  my  turn, 
and  she  isn't  a  King's  Daughter  either.  She  wouldn't 
join  when  we  did." 

"I  wonder  why  not  ?"  Sartain  commented. 

"Fin  sure  I  don't  know," Esther  answered.  "Per 
haps  she  knew  she  was  good  enough  without  belonging 
to  anything.  She  is  really  good,  you  know.  Fm  de 
voted  to  Dora  and  Theo,  but  they  are  not  half  as  good 
as  Johnny  is." 

This  was  entirely  a  new  suggestion  to  Sartain,  who 
had  not  hitherto  looked  on  Mr.  Vivian's  eldest  daugh 
ter  as  the  embodiment  of  goodness. 

By  this  time  twilight  was  descending  on  the  city,  and 
Mr.  Dircks,  rousing  himself  from  his  revery,  struck  a 
match  on  his  trousers  and  lighted  the  gas.  Then  Sar 
tain  rose  to  his  feet  at  once,  apologized  for  staying  so 
long,  and  was  assured  that  it  did  not  seem  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  since  he  came. 

As  he  was  going  Esther  invited  him  to  come  again 
on  Sunday  afternoon,  because  even  if  she  Avere  not  at 
home  her  father  would  be  glad  of  a  chat  with  him. 

At  the  head  of  the  stairs  Dircks  himself  called 
down,  "That  paper  now — what's  its  name  ?" 

"  What  paper  ?"  asked  Sartain,  surprised. 

"  The  paper  about  New  York,"  was  the  old  man's 
reply.  "The  one  the  fool's  losing  money  on  ?" 

"Oh,"  the  young  man  answered,  "you  mean  Man 
hattan  ?" 


A   CONFIDENT  TO-MORROW  157 

''That's  it,"Dircks  repeated,  "Manhattan.  I  must 
remember  the  name." 

When  Sartain  got  out  into  the  street  and  began  to 
walk  briskly  up  Lover's  Lane,  he  went  over  again  in 
his  mind  the  whole  conversation  with  Esther  Dircks ; 
and  he  was  astonished  to  discover  that  she  had  received 
him  at  once  on  a  friendly  footing.  It  was  only  the 
fourth  time  he  and  she  had  exchanged  words,  and  it 
seemed  to  him  that  in  this  fourth  meeting  he  had 
made  a  great  stride  towards  intimacy.  The  first  time 
he  had  gone  to  the  house  in  Stuyvesant  Square,  that 
drizzling  afternoon  in  November,  he  had  been  a  mere 
casual  acquaintance  making  a  first  call.  On  this  sec 
ond  visit  he  had  been  accepted  at  once  as  though  he 
were  a  familiar  friend.  That  he  should  have  made 
this  progress  was  to  him  inexplicable,  since  he  and  she 
had  not  spoken  or  corresponded  in  the  two  months'  in 
terval  between  the  two  interviews. 


CHAPTER  XII 

DURING  the  next  month,  as  it  chanced,  Sartain  was 
able  to  see  Esther  only  twice — once  again  at  the  house 
in  Stuyvesant  Square  on  a  Sunday  afternoon,  and  once 
at  the  Vivians'  on  the  Saturday  following.  He  went 
to  the  novelist's  two  or  three  times  without  finding 
her  there.  Even  on  the  two  occasions  when  he  did 
get  speech  with  her,  the  conversation  was  unsatisfac 
tory  in  so  much  as  they  were  not  alone.  At  Mr.  Viv 
ian's  there  were  a  couple  of  slim  young  men  talking 
to  the  twins;  and  this  was  perhaps  the  reason  that 
Johnny  kept  her  place  by  the  side  of  Esther,  thus  forc 
ing  Sartain  to  talk  to  both  of  them  at  the  same  time, 
which  was  a  strain  on  his  shyness.  On  the  Sunday 
afternoon  when  he  called  at  Stuyvesant  Square  he 
found  Johnny  there,  who  had  come  to  discuss  a  pro 
posed  change  in  the  hours  when  they  were  to  read  at 
Bellevue,  and  who  remained  as  long  as  he  did. 

In  other  ways,  also,  January  and  February  were 
months  of  doubt.  The  affairs  of  Carington  &  Com 
pany  were  becoming  more  and  more  involved,  and 
there  were  not  wanting  signs  of  impending  failure. 

In  the  meantime  he  took  advantage  of  the  respite 
time  allowed  him  and  toiled  away  on  A  Wolf  at  the 
Door.  The  manuscript  grew  steadily  under  his  pen ; 
and  although  he  felt  the  pressure  of  the  book — the 


A   CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW  159 

dead  weight  every  novelist  has  to  carry,  the  insistence 
of  a  single  idea — he  worked  on  without  hasting  and 
without  resting.  Towards  the  end  of  February  he  was 
able  to  look  forward  to  the  time  when  he  could  send 
A  Wolf  at  the  Door  either  to  the  Metropolis  or  to  the 
Arctic,  he  had  not  yet  decided  which. 

In  the  last  week  of  February  he  met  Esther  Dircks 
again ;  but  once  more  he  was  able  to  talk  to  her  alone 
only  for  a  few  minutes.  It  was  at  an  exhibition  of 
paintings  held  at  one  of  the  galleries  on  Fifth  Avenue. 
Adams  had  sent  Sartain  a  card  for  the  private  view, 
which  took  place  on  the  afternoon  of  the  last  Saturday 
of  the  month. 

As  he  was  free  early  on  Saturdays,  Sartain  was  one 
of  the  first  visitors  to  arrive.  He  found  that  each  of 
four  artists  had  grouped  from  six  to  ten  of  his  paint 
ings  in  his  own  corner  of  the  gallery.  He  went  at 
once  to  Adams's  pictures,  and  he  found  that  the  chief 
of  them  was  a  "  Cinderella,"  elaborated  from  the  swift 
pencil  sketch  he  had  seen  that  first  afternoon  in  New 
York  when  he  had  made  Esther's  acquaintance.  Nei 
ther  she  nor  the  twins  had  posed  for  it  since,  but 
Adams  had  utilized  professional  models  in  the  po 
sitions  assumed  by  the  three  girls  on  the  table  at  Mr. 
Vivian's.  The  likeness  of  either  of  the  twins  had  been 
lost  in  the  actual  painting ;  that  of  Esther  had  been 
preserved,  and  the  artist  had  been  most  successful  in 
catching  the  grace  of  her  attitude  and  in  suggesting 
the  charm  of  her  manner.  What  Sartain  most  liked 
about  the  picture  was  its  uncompromising  modernity. 
Here  was  the  heroine  of  the  old  fairy-tale,  and  she 
was  a  New  York  girl  of  the  nineteenth  century ;  yet 
somehow  while  you  were  under  the  spell  of  the  paint- 


160  A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW 

er's  art  you  accepted  this,  and  even  thought  that  this 
was  exactly  what  she  ought  to  be.  There  was  breadth 
in  the  handling,  and  a  bold  simplicity  that  Sartain  en 
joyed.  Adams  could  paint — that  nobody  could  deny. 
Sartain  wondered  whether  or  not  Esther  would  see 
how  the  painter's  affection  for  her  was  written  large 
upon  the  picture.  Sartain  could  see  this  plainly  enough 
— could  she  ? 

"When  Adams  arrived,  Sartain  congratulated  him. 

"  I'm  glad  you  like  it/'  the  painter  responded.  "  I 
think  it's  the  swellest  thing  I've  done.  The  compo 
sition  wasn't  easy,  either ;  and  I  had  dead  loads  of 
trouble  working  out  the  color-scheme." 

Surprised  that  the  artist  saw  only  the  technical 
merits  of  his  own  work,  the  literary  man  asked  him 
if  he  were  not  also  pleased  that  the  character  of  his 
picture  was  very  modern,  and  that  its  sentiment  never 
slopped  over  into  sentimentality. 

"  Yes,  that's  so,  too,"  Adams  explained  ;  "but  then 
I  can't  help  that,  and,  in  a  sense,  I  don't  deserve  any 
credit  for  it.  That  modern  note  you  like  is  the  one  I 
must  strike ;  I  couldn't  strike  any  other  if  I  tried.  I 
was  born  so.  And  I'm  glad  you  don't  think  that  pict 
ure  is  sentimental — but  I  couldn't  help  it  if  it  was. 
You  see,  it  is  just  this  way — how  I  see  things  and  how 
much  sentiment  I  put  into  a  picture,  that's  something 
I  have  little  or  nothing  to  do  with ;  that's  something 
decided  for  me  once  for  all  at  my  birth ;  no  effort 
would  ever  make  me  any  different.  So  long  as  I  do  my 
best  always  you  will  like  my  modern  point  of  view, 
and  you  will  think  that  my  sentiment  is  all  right. 
Other  fellows  won't  like  what  I  do,  if  they  dislike 
modern  life  and  if  they  like  sentimentality.  I've  in- 


A   CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW  161 

herited  certain  gifts,  certain  ways  of  looking  at  life ; 
and  so  I  see  things  in  a  certain  way,  because  that's 
the  only  way  I  can  see  them.  Another  man  would 
have  to  paint  them  in  another  way.  But  where  I  am 
responsible  is  in  my  teclmic — that  isn't  a  gift ;  that 
doesn't  come  by  inheritance  ;  that's  the  result  of  hard 
work,  and  of  taking  thought,  and  of  putting  my  back 
into  it,  and  of  doing  my  best  always,  and  of  never 
being  satisfied." 

"But  I  thought  you  were  satisfied  with  ' Cin 
derella'  here/'  Sartain  retorted. 

"Not  a  bit  of  it,"  the  artist  rejoined,  promptly. 
"It's  the  best  thing  I've  ever  done,  I  think,  and  I 
guess  I  can  see  its  merits  now  as  clearly  as  anybody 
else  ever  will.  But  satisfied  with  it  ?  Not  much. 
Why,  I'd  like  to  be  able  to  build  a  studio  just  to  paint 
that  picture  in,  and  to  have  the  models  I  want,  and 
to  be  free  to  take  all  the  time  I  need,  and  then — 

"And  then  you  would  be  satisfied  ?"  asked  Sartain, 
smiling. 

"And  then  I  should  probably  not  be  any  better 
pleased  with  it  than  I  am  now,"  Adams  confessed, 
rumpling  his  hair  with  a  familiar  gesture  that  in 
creased  the  quizzical  expression  on  his  face. 

The  number  of  visitors  in  the  gallery  was  slowly  in 
creasing.  While  the  two  young  men  were  standing  be 
fore  Adams's  picture  a  group  of  girls  entered  and 
gazed  about.  One  of  them,  catching  sight  of  the 
"Cinderella,"  detached  herself  and  came  towards  the 
corner  where  the  young  men  were.  When  she  saw 
them,  she  hesitated  for  a  moment  and  then  pressed 
forward  again. 

"  There's  no  need  of  your  wasting  any  more  time 
11 


162  A   CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW 

looking  at  these  things  of  mine/'  said  Adams,  loung 
ing  away  at  last. 

When  his  eyes  fell  upon  the  young  lady,  now  not 
two  yards  from  him,  he  sprang  forward.  "  Why,  Miss 
Esther  I"  he  cried,  and  Sartain  turned  instantly. 

"  I  thought  that  was  a  face  I'd  seen  before/'  she 
said,  holding  out  her  hand. 

"I  guess  you  might  have  seen  it  behind  —  since 
talking  to  you  always  turns  my  head,"  the  artist  re 
joined. 

"  And  Mr.  Sartain,  too  \"  the  girl  went  on,  shaking 
hands  with  him  also.  "  I'm  sorry  father  isn't  going 
to  be  here  this  afternoon.  I'm  sure  he  would  have 
liked  to  hear  what  you  say  about  all  these  pictures. 
He  thinks  so  much  of  your  opinion,  Mr.  Sartain." 

The  young  man  wanted  to  say  that  he  would  rejoice 
if  her  father's  daughter  also  held  him  in  high  esteem, 
but  his  shyness  seized  him,  and  all  that  he  could  do 
was  to  mumble,  "Does  he  ?  I  didn't  know  it." 

Sartain  for  the  first  time  saw  a  woman  whose  por 
trait  had  been  painted,  standing  before  her  counter 
feit  presentment.  He  wished  that  he  could  turn  a 
pretty  phrase  on  the  superiority  of  nature  over  art ; 
but  he  felt  that,  even  if  he  found  the  fit  words,  he 
would  never  be  able  to  utter  them.  Still  more  did  he 
wish  that  Adams  were  not  there.  Before  the  painter, 
whom  he  knew  to  be  both  a  rival  and  a  confident 
talker,  he  was  ill  at  ease  and  impatient.  He  had 
often  ascribed  shyness  to  conceit ;  and  he  now  won 
dered  whether  he  was  really  as  conceited  as  his  ex 
treme  shyness  seemed  to  indicate. 

He  stood  silent  by  her  side,  while  Adams  rattled 
along,  making  her  laugh  with  the  first  remark ;  and 


A   CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW  163 

he  heard  her  declare  that  she  had  come  with  the  three 
VTivian  girls,  and  that  she  had  best  try  to  get  them 
out  of  the  gallery  before  Dora  and  Theo  could  see  how 
he  had  represented  the  Haughty  Sisters.  She  indi 
cated  the  corner  of  the  hall  where  the  twins  and 
Johnny  were,  but  he  showed  no  inclination  to  leave 
her.  Then,  almost  arbitrarily,  so  it  seemed  to  Sartain, 
she  insisted  on  Adams's  going  to  the  Vivians.  Kather 
reluctantly  the  artist  obeyed  her;  and  Sartain  found 
that  he  and  Esther  were  left  alone  together  in  the 
thickening  crowd  of  visitors. 

"  You  say  your  father  is  not  to  be  here  this  after 
noon,"  he  began.  "I  hope  that  he  is  not  ill  ?" 

"  Ob  no,"  she  answered.  "  He  is  quite  well,  thank 
you.  But  he  is  very  busy  just  now." 

Sartain  was  glad  to  hear  this,  and  he  thought  that 
probably  some  of  the  orders  on  which  Dircks  was  en 
gaged  were  the  result  of  his  own  influence  upon  the 
art-editor  of  Carington  &  Company.  He  wished  that 
Esther  knew  what  he  had  done  for  her  father,  little  as 
it  was  ;  but,  of  course,  he  could  not  tell  her. 

"The  days  are  so  short  now,"  he  said,  "I  suppose 
your  father  begrudges  every  hour  of  light  he  gives  to 
anything  but  engraving." 

"Oh,  he  isn't  working  on  a  block  to-day,"  the  gi^. 
answered,  raising  her  liquid  eyes.  "  It's  business  that 
keeps  him  busy  now.  Father  has  to  see  the  lawyers, 
you  know,  and  have  papers  signed,  and  all  that  sort 
of  thing.  They  wouldn't  even  let  him  go  to  the  opera 
this-af  ternoon,  and  I  know  he  hated  to  miss  the  '  Meis- 
tersinger."' 

"  Lawyers  ?"  Sartain  repeated,  puzzled.  ' '  Is  he  in 
trouble  at  all?" 


164  A   CONFIDENT  TO-MORROW 

She  laughed  the  merry  little  laugh  he  always  found 
so  fascinating. 

"  Why,  don't  you  know  ?"  she  asked.  "  My  grand 
mother  left  us  a  little  money.  And  that's  trouble 
enough,  goodness  knows.  Father  hasn't  been  able  to 
do  any  of  his  own  work  for  a  week  or  more." 

The  young  man  told  her  that  he  did  not  know  of 
her  good  fortune,  and  he  congratulated  her  cordially. 
But  his  own  heart  sank  for  a  second  at  the  thought 
that  here  was  another  obstacle  to  his  suit,  since,  if  she 
had  wealth,  he  would  have  no  right  to  ask  her  to  share 
his  poverty.  Then  his  common-sense  came  to  his  res 
cue,  and  he  confessed  the  absurdity  of  these  roman 
tic  scruples.  If  she  had  money,  so  much  the  better 
for  her — and  for  both  of  them,  were  she  willing  ever 
to  marry  him.  So  long  as  there  was  no  gross  inequal 
ity  of  fortune,  the  better  off  either  of  them  might  be 
the  easier  their  married  life  would  be. 

' '  Oh,  the  money  isn't  mine,"  she  said,  in  response 
to  his  congratulations.  "  It's  all  father's  now.  Why, 
I'm  not  twenty-one  for  a  year  yet ;  and  it  seems  ever 
so  long  before  I'm  to  have  any  of  it.  I  don't  know 
anything  about  business,  either ;  and  father  has  to  do 
it  all  for  me." 

He  asked  if  Mr.  Dircks  would  give  up  wood-engrav 
ing  and  devote  himself  to  the  care  of  their  inheri 
tance. 

"  Oh  dear,  no,"  she  answered,  with  another  cheery 
little  laugh.  "  It  isn't  so  much  as  all  that.  Why,  my 
grandmother  wasn't  really  rich  —  not  what  they  call 
rich  here  in  New  York — and  then  I've  lots  of  cousins 
out  there.  You  mustn't  think  we  are  going  to  roll  in 
wealth.  Nobody  will  want  to  marry  me  for  my  money. 


A   CONFIDENT  TO-MOKROW  165 

I'm  not  an  heiress,  like  Johnny."  Then  she  paused, 
and  a  slight  blush  mantled  her  cheek  as  she  added, 
"  You  know  that  Johnny  and  Theo  and  Dora  have  lots 
and  lots  of  money  ?" 

Before  he  could  make  any  reply  to  this  the  Vivians 
and  Adams  joined  them.  The  three  girls  shook  hands 
with  Sartain  cordially.  Johnny  was  rather  more  manly 
in  her  attire  than  usual,  and  as  a  result  she  was  not  so 
attractive  in  Sartain's  eyes.  The  twins  laid  hold  of 
Esther;  and  in  the  readjustment  of  relative  positions, 
Sartain  found  himself  standing  by  Johnny,  a  little  out 
side  of  the  group  which  centred  about  Adams. 

Of  the  four  girls,  it  was  with  Johnny  that  Sartain 
was  under  least  constraint,  since  his  love  for  Esther 
sometimes  struck  him  dumb  in  her  presence.  Johnny 
was  a  good  fellow — Adams  was  right  in  saying  that. 
She  was  friendly  and  sympathetic.  Sartain  found  no 
difficulty  in  talking  to  her ;  and  it  did  not  strike  him 
at  first  that  this  was  due  to  her  tact.  He  liked  her,  and 
he  wished  that  he  had  such  an  elder  sister  to  whom  he 
could  go  for  counsel  and  for  comfort.  Before  he  was 
aware  of  it,  he  found  that  he  and  Johnny  were  standing 
together  in  front  of  the  "  Cinderella,"  and  that  he  could 
not  then  leave  her  alone  without  obvious  rudeness. 

Johnny  had  been  studying  the  picture  again,  and 
now  she  turned  to  the  young  man  by  her  side.  "It  is 
well  done,  isn't  it  ?"  she  asked.  "  Papa  is  right  in  de 
claring  that  Madams  knows  how  to  put  paint  on  can 
vas  as  well  as  anybody  in  America." 

"  Yes,"  Sartain  responded,  "  it  is  well  painted.  Of 
course,  I  know  little  about  such  things,  but  the  tech- 
nic  seems  to  me  masterly.  And  there's  a  heart  behind 
the  brush-work." 


166  A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW 

"You  wouldn't  suspect  it,  if  you  only  heard  him 
talk,"  said  Johnny  ;  "would  you  ?" 

"You  can't  help  admitting  it,"  he  answered,  "if 
you  note  how  he  has  brought  out  the  immaterial 
beauty  of  Cinderella — how  he  has  seized  the  spiritual 
ity  of  Miss  Dircks's  face." 

"He  has  been  studying  Esther's  face  for  a  long 
while,"  she  retorted;  "it's  no  wonder  he  has  it  by 
heart  now." 

"It  isn't  merely  that  it  is  done  lovingly,"  Sartain 
returned,  "  it's  the  subtle  skill  with  which  he  seems  to 
have  suggested  the  soul  beneath." 

Johnny  gave  a  little  laugh,  not  mocking,  exactly, 
although  there  was  a  hint  of  hardness  in  it.  "You 
couldn't  speak  more  enthusiastically  about  her,"  she 
said,  "if  you  were  in  love  with  her,  as  Madams  is." 

Sartain  never  knew  what  sudden  impulse  possessed 
him  and  made  him  surrender  his  secret. 

"And  supposing  I  was,"  he  asked,  "do  you  think  I 
should  have  any  right  to  hope  ?" 

For  a  few  seconds  the  healthy  color  in  Johnny's 
cheek  paled,  but  she  made  no  immediate  reply.  She 
only  gave  him  a  curious  look — a  look  which  he  did  not 
understand  at  all. 

"  If  I  were  in  love  with  her,"  persisted  he,  "  do  you 
think  I  should  have  a  chance  ?" 

"  How  should  I  know  what  another  girl  is  likely  to 
do  ?"  Johnny  asked  in  return. 

"But  you  know  Tier,"  he  urged;  "she  went  to 
school  with  your  sisters,  and  you  know  all  about  her." 

"Yes,"  said  Johnny,  calmly.  "I  know  all  about 
her." 

"  Then  you  will  tell  me  all  you  know,  won't  you  ?" 


A   CONFIDENT   TO-MOEEOW  167 

he  went  on.  "And  you  will  be  patient  with  me, 
won't  you  ?  I  must  have  somebody  I  can  talk  to  about 
her,  and  you  are  the  only  one.  You  will  let  me,  won't 
you  ?  It's  selfish,  of  course,  for  me  to  want  to  bother 
you  with  my  love  for  her  ;  I  know  it  is,  and  I  beg  your 
pardon  now  for  obtruding  it  upon  you.  I  can't  guess 
Avhy  I  told  you ;  I  had  no  intention  of  doing  it,  I  assure 
you.  It  slipped  out  before  I  knew  it.  But  now  I  have 
told  you,  now  you  do  know,  you  will  listen  to  me, 
won't  you,  Miss  Johnny  ?" 

"I  am  listening,"  she  said. 

"You  will  let  me  talk  to  you  about  her,"  he  pur 
sued.  "You  will  tell  me  all  you  know  of  her  and  of 
her  ways  ?  It  would  be  so  kind  of  you,  if  you  would  ! 
If  there  was  anything  I  could  do  for  you  in  return,  I'd 
do  it — but,  of  course,  I  know  there  isn't,  for  you  have 
everything  you  want.  But  if  there  was  anything  at 
all,  I'd  do  it  gladly." 

To  this  strange  avowal,  made  in  a  low  voice,  in  the 
corner  of  a  crowded  picture-gallery,  Johnny  had  lis 
tened  without  a  gesture.  Probably  any  one  who  had 
seen  the  young  man  pleading  with  the  tall,  handsome 
girl,  and  who  had  overheard  the  eagerness  in  his  voice, 
might  have  thought  that  it  was  she  he  loved,  and  that 
he  was  proposing  to  her  then. 

At  last  she  raised  her  head  and  looked  at  him. 
"You  do  love  her!"  she  said,  slowly.  "There's  no 
doubt  of  that !" 

"  You  can't  guess  how  much  I  love  her  !"  Sartain 
answered. 
"Johnny  made  no  reply. 

"  Of  course,  I  don't  hope  to  have  her  love  me  now, 
not  even  a  little,"  he  continued.  "  She  scarcely  knows 


168  A   CONFIDENT  TO-MORROW 

me,  after  all.  And  what  am  I  that  she  should  love  me, 
anyhow  ?  I  haven't  anything  to  offer  her — nothing 
but  the  love  I  have  for  her.  What  I  want  you  to  tell 
me  is  this  :  do  you  think  that  Adams  has  a  chance 
now  ?  Has  she  changed  her  mind  since  she  rejected 
him  last  ?  And — and  is  there  anybody  else  that  I  don't 
know  ?  You  see,  I  love  her  so  much,  she  seems  so 
beautiful  to  me — so  exquisite,  so  perfect — that  I  don't 
see  how  it  is  everybody  else  isn't  in  love  with  her. 
too." 

Johnny  answered  him  gravely.  "I  don't  know 
whether  Adams  has  a  better  chance  now  than  he  had 
last  summer.  I  haven't  an  idea.  Esther  may  have 
come  to  like  him  better  than  she  did  then — but  I  can't 
tell  you." 

"  I  must  run  the  risk  of  that,"  sighed  Sartain ;  "  and 
Adams  isn't  a  rival  to  be  sneered  at.  He  can  paint 
her,  too,  and  I  can't  do  anything.  But — but  is  there 
anybody  else  in  love  with  her — anybody  I  don't  know  ?" 

"  I  think  not,"  declared  Johnny — "  at  least,  I  have 
not  heard  of  anybody  else,  and  I  have  seen  nothing  to 
make  me  think  that  Esther  has  any  more  admirers." 
Then  she  checked  herself  and  laughed  again.  "  Surely 
she  has  her  full  share  with  Madams  and  with  you, 
hasn't  she  ?  I  never  saw  two  more  devoted  lovers.  I 
don't  see  why  you  should  both  choose  me  for  a  confi 
dant." 

"  Has  Adams  talked  to  you  about  her,  too  ?"  asked 
Sartain. 

"Yes,"  she  answered.  "When  Madams  and  I  hap 
pen  to  be  together,  he  never  talks  of  anything  but 
Esther.  Now  you  are  following  his  example.  Perhaps 
it  is  lucky  for  me  that  there  are  not  more  of  the  men 


A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW  169 

I  know  in  love  with  her.  Strange  as  it  may  seem  to 
you,  I  fear  I  might  find  a  certain  monotony  in  having 
another  woman's  perfection  as  the  sole  topic  of  con 
versation." 

By  this  time  the  twins  had  made  the  circuit  of  the 
gallery  with  Esther  and  Adams,  and  the  merry  group 
was  coming  back  to  Johnny  and  Sartain,  augmented 
by  Mr.  Vivian  and  by  a  sprightly  young  woman. 

As  Vivian  was  shaking  hands  with  Sartain,  the  lat 
ter  heard  the  sprightly  young  woman  thank  the  twins 
for  all  the  information  they  had  given  her. 

Then  the  twins  turned  to  Johnny. 

"  You  can't  guess  who  that  is  ?"  said  Dora. 

"  We've  been  interviewed  !"  Theo  explained. 

"  Was  that  a  reporter  ?"  Johnny  asked,  with  a  lan 
guid  interest.  "What  did  she  want  ?" 

"  She  wanted  to  know  who  Esther  was,"  Theo  an 
swered.  "  She'd  recognized  her  as  the  original  Cin 
derella." 

"But  she  said  she'd  no  idea  that  we  were  the 
Haughty  Sisters,"  Dora  broke  in.  "  So  Madams  has 
failed  to  disgrace  us  in  the  eyes  of  the  public." 

"  How  did  you  come  to  tell  her  anything  ?"  Johnny 
inquired.  "  I  didn't  know  we  had  any  lady  journal 
ists  on  our  visiting-list." 

"  She  had  met  papa,"  Dora  answered. 

"  At  least,  she  claimed  she  had,"  Theo  added ;  "  and 
you  know  papa — he  was  too  polite  to  deny  it." 

"  She  said  that  she  had  been  up  to  interview  me 
once,"  Mr.  Vivian  admitted.  "  That  is  very  likely." 

"'She  was  an  engaging  young  thing,  I  thought," 
commented  the  painter.  "I'd  like  to  do  her  in  water- 
colors." 


170  A   CONTIDENT  TO-MOKROW 

"  Do  you  think  she  is  one  of  those  whose  color  will 
wash  off  ?"  asked  Johnny. 

"Come  now,"  Adams  returned,  "don't  be  hard  on 
a  poor  girl  who  has  to  earn  her  living  the  best  way  she 
can.  You've  no  right  to  be  down  on  her  because  she 
isn't  as  wealthy  as  you  are.  Now,  I  don't  care  for 
money  myself  ;  what  I  want  is  brains." 

"  What  you  want  is  brains  ?"  repeated  Johnny, 
mockingly.  "  Exactly  !" 

"  I  don't  see — "  Adams  began. 

But  Johnny  interrupted  him.  "  You  don't  see  ? 
Of  course  you  don't.  You  are  as  blind  as  a  bat,  even 
about  your  own  interests.  When  a  thing  is  going  on 
right  under  your  eyes,  you  never  see  it !" 

Sartain  heard  with  surprise  the  acerbity  with  which 
Johnny  spoke.  Hitherto  when  she  and  Adams  had 
fenced  there  had  been  buttons  on  the  foils,  but  this 
time  it  seemed  as  though  the  girl  preferred  the  unguard 
ed  small-sword  and  wanted  to  wound.  Apparently  the 
painter  was  conscious  of  this,  for  he  refused  to  retort. 

After  a  brief  general  conversation  about  the  pict 
ures,  the  party  broke  up.  The  three  Vivians  took 
Esther  home  with  them  in  their  carriage,  as  Satur 
day  was  their  day  for  receiving. 

When  they  had  driven  off,  Mr.  Vivian  walked  down 
Fifth  Avenue  with  the  two  young  men  till  he  came 
to  one  of  his  clubs,  and  there  he  left  them. 

Just  as  they  were  going  on  again  the  elder  novelist 
called  them  back. 

"By-the-way,  Sartain," he  said,  "can  you  come  and 
see  me  to-morrow  about  four  o'clock  ?  Mr.  Dircks  will 
be  there  then,  and  he  has  a  little  scheme  he  desires 
me  to  propose  to  you." 


A   CONFIDENT  TO-MORROW  171 

"  Certainly/*'  the  young  man  answered,  much  as 
tonished.  "  At  four  to-morrow  ?  I  shall  be  delighted 
to  come." 

As  the  young  men  paced  along  down  Fifth  Avenue, 
Sartain  hardly  heard  what  Adams  was  saying,  as  he 
was  trying  to  puzzle  out  why  Mr.  Dircks  could  pos 
sibly  want  to  see  him.  Just  before  they  came  to  the 
corner  of  Thirty-fourth  Street,  he  made  up  his  mind 
that  it  was  hopeless  for  him  to  try  and  guess.  He  had 
only  twenty-four  hours  to  wait,  and  then  he  would 
hear  what  this  scheme  was.  He  turned  his  attention 
back  to  his  companion  in  time  to  hear  the  painter  ask, 
"  What  was  the  matter  with  Johnny,  anyway  ?  Did  yon 
notice  how  she  jumped  on  me  that  time,  just  before 
we  came  out  ?" 

Sartain  admitted  that  he  had  observed  it. 

"  I  don't  know  what  got  into  her,"  Adams  admitted. 
"  Generally  when  we  have  our  little  scraps,  she  never 
hits  below  the  belt,  but  just  now  she  got  in  two  or 
three  foul  blows.  She  couldn't  have  been  savager  if 
she'd  been  crossed  in  love  I" 


CHAPTER   XIII 

A  DOZEN  times  within  the  next  twenty-four  hours 
did  Sartain  ask  himself  why  he  had  made  a  confidant  of 
Mr.  Vivian's  eldest  daughter.  He  regretted  that  he  had 
let  her  or  any  one  have  a  glimpse  of  his  deeper  feel 
ings.  He  trusted  Johnny ;  he  knew  he  could  rely  on 
her  loyalty,  he  was  sure  she  would  keep  his  secret. 
Yet  there  was  a  something  in  the  way  she  had  received 
his  confidence  that  puzzled  him.  Perhaps  it  was  no 
more  than  a  change  of  attitude  on  her  part  towards 
a  man  who,  as  she  was  now  aware,  loved  another  wom 
an.  Sartain  pretended  to  no  expertness  in  feminine 
psychology  ;  indeed,  he  often  felt  how  his  growth  as  a 
writer  of  fiction  was  cramped  by  his  ignorance  of 
women. 

In  the  morning,  when  he  began  to  turn  over  the 
thirty  or  forty  pages  which  composed  the  regular  Sun 
day  edition  of  the  Daily  Dial,  he  saw  an  outline  of 
Adams's  "  Cinderella,"  and  below  this  he  beheld  a 
scrambling  sketch  of  three  girls  standing  on  a  table 
in  poses  copied  from  those  in  the  picture.  As  he  read 
the  head -lines  of  the  accompanying  article  his  face 
flamed,  and  the  wish  sprang  up  hot  in  his  heart  to  go 
down  to  the  office  of  the  Daily  Dial,  and  to  cowhide 
the  brute  who  was  responsible  for  the  insertion  of 
the  offending  matter.  At  the  end  he  found  the  sig- 


A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORROAV  173 

nature,  "  Polly  Perkins,"  and  he  assumed  at  once  that 
the  vulgar  stuff  had  been  composed  by  the  sprightly 
young  woman  they  had  met  at  the  gallery  the  after 
noon  before. 

There  is  no  need  to  analyze  the  article  which  thus 
annoyed  Sartain,  as  a  selection  from  the  scare-heads 
that  introduced  it  will  be  sufficient  to  display  its 
quality:  "High  Jinks  on  the  Top  Floor;"  "Lovely 
Ladies  as  Artists'  Models ;"  "  Literature  and  Art ;" 
"  Dainty  Little  Esther  Dircks  as  Cinderella  ;"  "  Novel 
ist  Vivian's  Vivacious  Daughters  as  the  Haughty  Sis 
ters  ;"  "  Pretty  Girls  Pose  on  Parlor  Tables."  Never 
before  had  the  vulgarity  of  this  kind  of  journalism  re 
volted  him  as  it  did  now,  when  he  beheld  the  woman 
he  loved  thus  exposed  to  the  public  gaze.  Yet  there 
was  no  redress.  Plainly  enough  the  article  was  not 
libellous  ;  it  revealed  no  animus  on  the  part  of  the 
writer  ;  it  made  no  statement  absolutely  false  ;  only  it 
was  leering  and  sneering  and  coarse.  Sartain  read  it 
a  second  time  carefully,  to  come  to  the  conclusion  that 
the  girl  who  wrote  it  was  now  so  used  to  the  concoc 
tion  of  such  stuff  that  she  was  no  longer  aware  of  its 
offensiveness. 

This  was  what  he  suggested  to  Mr.  Vivian  when  he 
kept  his  appointment  with  the  novelist  that  afternoon. 

"Very  likely  Polly  Perkins  thought  that  she  was 
giving  three  other  girls  a  good  notice,"  Vivian  de 
clared,  as  he  conducted  his  visitor  through  the  narrow 
corridor  towards  his  own  library.  "The  dyer's  hand, 
you  remember — subdued  to  what  it  works  in  !" 

"It's  disgusting  !" cried  Sartain,  shaking  himself. 

"  It  is  pitiful,"  Vivian  admitted.  "  Some  of  these 
Sunday  papers  here  make  me  understand  the  saying  of 


174  A   CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW 

Carmen  Sylva  —  you  remember? — that  if  Gutenberg 
could  have  foreseen  modern  journalism  he  would  have 
destroyed  his  invention." 

"I  wonder  who  can  want  to  read  a  thing  of  that 
sort  ?"  Sartain  exclaimed. 

"  You  and  I  did  read  it/'  Vivian  answered.  "  But  I 
will  say  for  myself  that  I  happened  to  see  it  at  the  club. 
I  do  not  allow  the  Dial  in  the  house  now.  And  there 
fore  I  must  request  you  not  to  mention  the  article  to 
the  girls  ;  there  is  no  need  that  their  minds  should  be 
contaminated."  They  had  now  come  to  the  door  of 
the  library.  Mr.  Vivian  threw  it  open,  saying,  "  You 
will  find  Mr.  Dircks  waiting  for  you." 

Sartain  blinked  in  the  sudden  glare  of  the  winter 
sunshine,  and  then  he  recognized  Mr.  Dircks  seated 
almost  in  the  centre  of  the  bow-window.  The  large 
form  of  the  old  man  filled  the  comfortable  arm-chair. 
His  white  hair  was  longer  than  usual,  and  fell  011  the 
collar  of  his  dark-gray  coat.  His  grizzled  beard  spread 
out  on  his  chest  and  gave  him  a  patriarchal  appear 
ance,  the  benignancy  of  which  was  contradicted  only 
by  the  bristling  eyebrows. 

"  I  have  asked  Sartain  to  come  here  this  afternoon," 
Vivian  began,  "  at  your  request,  Mr.  Dircks.  He 
knows  that  you  wish  to  make  him  a  proposition." 

Sartain  turned  his  gaze  from  Vivian  to  Dircks.  The 
old  man  moved  uneasily  in  his  chair,  and  he  made  a 
vague  murmur  to  Sartain.  Turning  to  his  host,  he 
said,  "  You  tell  him,"  and  then  he  settled  himself  once 
more  in  his  seat,  with  his  gaze  fixed  on  the  young  man. 
It  was  then  that  Sartain  discovered  for  the  first  time 
that  Esther  had  her  father's  eyes. 

"  I  do  not  think  that  I  can  state  the  case  for  you  as 


A   CONFIDENT  TO-MOKKOW  175 

well  as  you  could  yourself,"  Mr.  Vivian  responded. 
"  But  I  will  attempt  the  task,  if  you  desire." 

Sartain  remarked  how  clear  was  Vivian's  speech,  and 
how  distinct  was  his  enunciation.  His  delivery  was  like 
his  handwriting ;  both  were  the  result  of  a  belief  that 
nothing  is  so  insignificant  that  it  may  be  neglected. 

"  You  tell  him,"  repeated  Dircks. 

"  Very  well,  then,  since  you  insist,"  said  Vivian. 
"I  will  be  as  brief  as  may  be.  Here  is  the  matter  in 
a  nutshell :  Mr.  Dircks  is  about  to  purchase  Manhat 
tan,  and  he  Avishes  to  know  if  you  are  free  to  accept 
the  position  of  editor  ?" 

The  young  man  was  taken  wholly  by  surprise. 
"  Yes,"  he  answered,  at  last.  "  Yes,  I  think  that 
Carington  &  Company  would  release  me — in  fact,  the 
work  is  so  far  advanced  now  that  they  can  finish  it  in 
the  office." 

"Then  you  are  willing  to  edit  Manhattan,  if  Mr. 
Dircks  buys  the  paper  ?"  Vivian  asked. 

Sartain  instantly  thought  of  Esther  and  of  the  in 
timacy  likely  to  thicken  between  him  and  her  father  if 
he  joined  the  staff  of  a  paper  Mr.  Dircks  owned. 

"  Oh,  certainly,"  he  answered  ;  "  certainly,  I  shall  be 
very  glad  to  help.  Who  is  to  be  the  editor-in-chief  ?" 

"  You  are,"  Vivian  responded. 

"  I  ?"  cried  Sartain,  in  great  surprise.  "  Oh,  I  didn't 
suppose  you  meant  that !" 

"  Mr.  Dircks  approves  of  the  views  he  has  heard  you 
expound  in  regard  to  the  proper  management  of  a 
weekly  review  to  be  written  by  New-Yorkers  for  New- 
Yorkers,"  said  the  host,  "  and  he  wishes  to  provide  you 
with  an  opportunity  to  convert  your  theories  into  prac 
tice." 


176  A   CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW 

Sartain  looked  at  Dircks,  whose  eyes  had  been  upon 
him  since  he  entered  the  room. 

"  By  New-Yorkers  for  New-Yorkers  ?"  the  young 
man  repeated.  ' '  Doesn't  that  let  me  out  ?  I'm  either 
a  Ehode-Islander  or  a  Kansan,  I  suppose." 

"  You  have  been  here  now  for  four  months — is  it 
not  ?"  Vivian  asked.  "  That  is  quite  time  enough  to 
make  a  New-Yorker  out  of  a  Kansan  Ehode-Islander. 
When  you  have  lived  here  longer  you  will  know  that 
all  New-Yorkers  have  come  from  somewhere  else.  The 
New-Yorkers  who  were  born  in  New  York  have  either 
gone  West  to  earn  their  living,  or  else  they  have  gone 
to  Europe  to  live  on  their  incomes." 

"  But  do  you  think  that  I  know  enough  about  New 
York  to  edit  a  paper  intended  specially  for  New-York 
ers  ?"  objected  Sartain. 

"You  know  more  about  it  than  you  did  last  year," 
Vivian  responded.  "  And  you  thought  you  knew 
enough  then  to  attempt  a  novel  of  New  York  life, 
did  you  not  ?" 

Sartain  admitted,  with  a  little  constraint,  that  he 
supposed  he  was  better  acquainted  with  New  York  now 
than  he  was  when  he  started  in  to  write  Dust  and 
Ashes. 

"  The  confession  of  ignorance  is  the  beginning  of 
knowledge,"  declared  Vivian,  smiling  at  his  own  sen- 
tentiousness.  "Did  I  ever  tell  you  what  Pius  IX.  used 
to  say  to  the  foreigners  who  were  presented  to  him  ?" 

"  You  never  did,"  the  young  man  responded,  eager 
ly  ;  "and  I  have  been  meaning  to  ask  you." 

"  Pius  IX.  was  a  very  shrewd  old  man,"  Vivian  con 
tinued,  "and  when  he  asked  the  visitor,  'How  long 
have  you  been  in  Rome  ?'  if  the  answer  was  '  a  fort- 


A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW  177 

night'  or  'a  month/  the  Pope  would  say,  'I  suppose 
yon  have  now  seen  nearly  everything.'  If  the  visitor 
replied  that  he  had  been  in  Rome  a  year,  then  Pius 
would  respond,  'I  suppose  you  are  beginning  to  find 
your  way  about  the  city.'  But  if  the  visitor  declared 
that  he  had  been  there  two  or  three  years,  then  the 
Pope  would  smile  and  say,  '  I  suppose  you  have  dis 
covered  by  this  time  that  you  never  will  see  the  half 
of  the  things  Rome  has  to  show."' 

Sartain  laughed  with  appreciation  of  this,  and  con 
fessed  at  once  that  he  saw  the  personal  application  of 
the  anecdote. 

"  When  you  came  to  me  from  the  West  four  months 
ago,"  the  host  returned,  "  and  sat  in  that  chair  and 
told  me  about  the  novel  of  New  York  life  you  have 
been  writing  out  there  in  Kansas,  on  the  strength  of  a 
chance  visit  or  two  to  the  city,  I  thought  that  you 
were  like  the  Pope's  visitor  who  had  been  in  Rome  a 
few  days  only.  Now  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  you 
have  been  promoted  to  the  more  advanced  class  ;  but 
it  is  only  when  you  have  lived  here,  as  I  have,  for  forty 
years,  that  you  will  discover  the  hopelessness  of  trying 
to  know  the  whole  city — the  Five  Points  as  well  as 
Fifth  Avenue,  Little  Italy  as  well  as  Wall  Street." 

"New  York  is  headquarters!"  broke  in  Dircks, 
speaking  for  the  first  time  since  the  conversation  be 
gan.  "That's  why  I  want  a  paper  here  to  talk  right 
out  in  meeting." 

This  brought  the  discussion  back  to  its  starting- 
point.  "  Here  is  the  situation,"  Vivian  explained,  be 
ginning  again :  "Mr.  Dircks  proposes  to  buy  Manhattan^ 
if  you  will  edit  it.  He  is  a  reformer,  as  you  are.  You 

and  he  think  alike  on  certain  of  the  important  ques- 
12 


178  A    CONFIDENT   TO-MOEROW 

tions  of  the  day.  You  both  believe  that  society  can 
be  improved  immediately  by  legislation — 

"  Don't  you  ?"  interrupted  the  young  man. 

"  I  do  and  I  do  not,"  answered  the  elder.  "A  law 
far  in  advance  of  public  opinion  on  any  subject  is 
likely  to  do  more  harm  than  good.  If  you  want  your 
ideas  to  prevail,  you  must  first  educate  public  opinion, 
stimulate  it  in  every  way  ;  and  as  soon  as  the  majority 
feels  about  the  question  as  you  do,  the  victory  is  won, 
and  mere  legislation  is  easy,  for  all  that  is  needed  then 
is  to  codify  public  opinion.  If  Mr.  Dircks  wishes  to 
shift  the  burdens  of  the  worthy  poor  upon  the  shoul 
ders  of  the  idle  rich,  the  advocacy  of  special  remedies 
like  the  single-tax  or  the  income-tax  or  the  inheritance- 
tax,  or  all  of  them,  will  not  be  so  efficacious  as  the 
creation  of  a  sentiment  abroad  among  the  people  that 
gross  inequalities  of  wealth  are  wrong  in  themselves  and 
dangerous  to  the  republic.  When  the  existence  of  the 
evil  is  generally  admitted,  it  will  be  simple  enough  to 
apply  a  remedy." 

"That's  it,"  Dircks  broke  in  again  ;  "  it's  the  men 
out  of  work  and  wanting  work,  while  the  trusts  are 
shutting  down — that's  what  we've  got  to  show  up." 

Sartain  thought  it  best  to  file  an  objection  here. 
"  Of  course,  there  are  lots  of  evils  to  be  attacked ;  but 
do  you  think  that  a  merely  aggressive  paper  is  likely 
to  do  as  much  good  as  one  that  can  praise  as  well  as 
find  fault  ?  It  has  always  seemed  to  me  that  the  way 
to  make  the  world  better  is  to  tell  people  it  is  getting 
better,  and  to  prove  it  to  them  ;  to  encourage  them  and 
not  to  discourage  them  ;  to  inspire  hope  and  confi 
dence  and  energy  to  fight  a  good  fight,  with  a  certain 
victory  in  the  distance." 


A   CONFIDENT    TO-MORROW  179 

"What  is  most  to  be  avoided,"  responded  Vivian, 
"  is  the  tone  of  contempt  which  marks  so%mch  of  the 
aggressive  writing  of  our  time.  Hatred  may  be  a 
force,  perhaps,  bnt  certainly  contempt  is  not.  That 
is  the  weakness  of  a  paper  as  brilliant  as  the  Wall  Street 
Standard — Gillingham  cannot  help  expressing  his  con 
tempt  for  everybody  who  is  not  as  clever  as  he  is." 

"I  told  him  what  I  thought  of  him,"  said  Dircks, 
emphatically.  "  I  wouldn't  trust  him  as  far  as  I  could 
sling  a  bull  by  the  tail." 

"  Then  what  Mr.  Dircks  really  wants  is  a  hopeful 
paper,  which  shall  point  out  how  certain  abuses  stand 
in  the  way  of  progress,"  Sartain  suggested.  "Man 
hattan  is  to  take  advanced  ground  on  all  matters  of 
reform,  but  it  is  not  to  be  a  shrieking  protest  against 
the  present  order  of  society.  It  ought  to  be  a  non- 
partisan,  I  should  say — not  neutral,  but  bound  to  no 
party,  ready  to  take  sides  on  any  question  according 
to  the  principle  of  the  thing,  and  not  influenced  by 
the  effect  of  the  proposal  upon  the  fortunes  of  any 
political  organization." 

"That's  it,"  Dircks  confirmed,  "not  wearing  any 
body's  uniform,  but  in  the  thick  of  the  fighting  al- 
ways." 

"  So  much  for  the  politics,  then,"  said  the  future 
editor ;  "what  about  the  rest  of  the  paper  ?" 

"  The  rest  of  the  paper  is  to  remain  very  much  Avhat 
it  is  now,  but  to  be  better  done,"  Vivian  answered. 
"  The  scheme  on  which  it  was  started  is  excellent ;  it 
is  the  execution  which  has  been  inadequate  hitherto. 
Mr.  Dircks  wants  to  reach  the  most  intelligent  classes 
of  the  community,  believing  these  to  be  the  most  in 
fluential.  He  expects  you  to  make  Manhattan  so  good 


180  A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW 

that  every  man  of  cultivation  in  the  city  will  have  to 
read  it  in  self-defence.  He  hopes  you  will  be  able  to 
get  the  best  critics  of  the  country  to  write  for  it,  the 
best  critics  of  literature  and  of  the  drama,  of  science 
and  of  the  fine  arts." 

"They  talk  about  the  'plain  people/ "  Dircks  in 
terjected.  "It's  them  I'm  after.  But  I  don't  think 
anything  is  too  good  for  the  plain  people.  What's  too 
good  for  them  ain't  good  enough  for  me." 

"  I  think  I  begin  to  see  what  you  want/'  Sartain 
said,  modestly.  ''Manhattan,  a  Metropolitan  Review, 
the  paper  written  by  New-Yorkers  for  New-Yorkers. 
I  see  it  in  my  mind's  eye  as  it  ought  to  be.  But 
whether  it  can  ever  be  made  to  materialize,  I  don't 
know.  If  you  think  I  can  do  it,  I'm  ready  to  try ; 
and  I'll  do  what  I  can.  One  thing  I'd  like  to  ask. 
Am  I  to  have  full  control — or  must  I  consult  Mr. 
Dircks  about  everything  ?  In  other  words,  am  I  to 
be  an  office-editor  only  or  the  editor-in-chief  ?  If  I 
take  the  responsibility,  I  think  I  ought  to  have  the 
power,  don't  you  ?" 

Vivian  looked  towards  Dircks  for  an  answer  to  this 
question. 

"I  buy  the  paper  and  you  run  it/'  said  the  old  man, 
thus  appealed  to.  "  I've  heard  yon  talk ;  I  know 
what  you  think  about  things,  and  that's  what  I  want 
you  should  say." 

"I  am  to  have  both  the  power  and  the  responsi 
bility  ?"  the  young  man  returned.  "Then  all  I  can 
say  is,  that  I  will  do  my  very  best  to  make  a  paper 
that  will  be  satisfactory  to  you." 

"  When  shall  you  know  whether  they  will  sell  out  to 
you  or  not  ?"  asked  Vivian. 


A   CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW  181 

"The  dnde  that  is  tired  of  losing  money  on  it  is  to 
write  me  Tuesday/'  answered  Dircks.  "  I  made  an 
offer,  and  I  told  him  it  was  yes  or  no.  He'll  take  it. 
I  sized  him  up." 

"If  he  accepts  your  proposition,"  Vivian  inquired, 
"  how  soon  can  you  pay  the  purchase-money  and  take 
possession  ?" 

"  I  got  the  money  now,"  said  Dircks. 

"  It'll  take  money  to  run  the  paper,  and  lots  of  it, 
too,  if  it's  to  be  well  done,"  said  Sartain,  looking  at 
Dircks,  who  was  following  every  word. 

But  the  old  man  repeated,  "I  got  the  money." 

"Then  that's  all  right,"  Sartain  returned.  "We 
must  make  the  best  show  we  can  without  wasting  too 
much.  I  know  just  the  man  for  a  publisher,  and  I 
think  a  paper  needs  a  publisher  even  more  than  it 
does  an  editor.  I  don't  believe  it's  so  very  hard  to 
make  an  interesting  paper  that  people  '11  want  to  read; 
but  it  isn't  going  to  be  easy  to  make  them  find  that 
out,  and  it's  hard  to  fill  it  up  with  ads.  at  the  right 
price.  There  was  a  man  in  the  office  in  Topeka  who 
had  just  the  gumption  for  that  work." 

"You  write  him  to-night,"  said  Dircks. 

"I'll  do  it,"  replied  Sartain.  "Now,  about  special 
features  ?  We'll  have  a  short  story  every  week,  of 
course,  just  as  they  do  now.  What  about  a  serial  ? 
Where  are  we  to  find  a  good  American  novel  to  take 
its  place — something  that  has  some  relation  to  real 
life  and  to  mankind  as  we  know  it  nowadays?" 

This  question  was  addressed  rather  to  Vivian,  who 
made  no  response,  however.  Then  Sartain  directly 
asked  him  if  he  had  not  a  novel  that  Manhattan  could 
print  as  a  serial. 


182  A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW 

"  Thank  you/'  the  elder  novelist  answered.  "The 
story  I  am  finishing  now  is  promised  to  the  Arctic; 
and  I  doubt  if  I  even  begin  another  before  we  return 
from  Europe  late  in  the  fall." 

"  What  are  we  to  do  ?"  asked  Sartain. 

"Why  do  you  not  print  your  own  novel  of  N"ew 
York?"  Vivian  inquired;  "the  one  you  were  telling 
me  about — Dust  and  Ashes,  isn't  it  ?" 

"  Oh,  I'm  not  at  all  satisfied  with  that,"  cried  the 
younger  novelist.  "  I've  been  trying  to  revise  it ;  and 
I'm  afraid  I'd  better  give  it  up  for  a  bad  job." 

"You  may  spoil  it,"  said  Vivian,  kindly;  "and  if 
you  wait  until  you  are  satisfied  with  your  work,  it  is 
quite  possible  that  you  will  die  before  you  have  pub 
lished  anything.  Bring  me  Dust  and  Ashes,  and  I 
will  see  whether  or  not  you  need  rend  your  garments 
also." 

"That's  very  good  of  you,"  Sartain  responded,  grate 
fully;  it  seemed  to  him  that  fortune  was  strangely 
kind  to  him  all  at  once. 

After  a  few  words  more  the  discussion  came  to  an 
end.  Vivian  asked  his  guests  to  walk  into  the  front 
room  and  have  a  cup  of  tea.  Dircks  declined;  he  had 
an  engagement.  After  helping  the  old  man  with  his 
overcoat,  and  begging  to  be  remembered  to  his  daugh 
ter,  Sartain  passed  into  the  drawing-room  with  Vivian. 

The  young  man  had  followed  his  host  along  the  dim 
corridor,  feeling  as  though  he  were  walking  on  air. 
The  future  was  smiling  on  him.  The  dream  of  his 
youth  was  about  to  come  true.  His  castles  in  the  air 
were  settling  themselves  solidly  down  on  the  rocky 
foundations  of  reality.  He  seemed  to  have  before  him 
now  a  chance  such  as  was  offered  to  few  men  as  young 


A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW  183 

as  he  ;  and  ho  was  resolved  to  seize  the  opportunity 
and  to  make  the  most  of  it.  lie  was  not  yet  twenty- 
six,  and  he  was  to  have  absolute  control  of  a  New  York 
weekly ;  and  this  paper  was  to  be  owned  by  the  father 
of  the  girl  he  loved — an  association  certain  to  give 
him  many  a  chance  of  seeing  her.  With  a  smile  that 
almost  broke  into  a  laugh,  he  recalled  a  few  of  the 
numberless  instances  in  literature  where  the  good  ap 
prentice  had  married  his  master's  daughter. 

His  head  reeled  with  his  sudden  elation,  and  he 
could  have  danced  into  the  drawing-room  where  Mr. 
Vivian's  three  daughters  were.  When  he  entered  he 
checked  himself  and  tried  to  regain  his  calmness.  But 
his  fancies  were  still  whirling.  He  saw  that  Johnny  was 
seated  at  the  tea-table  in  one  corner.  She  was  a  good 
fellow,  Johnny  was  ;  and  in  sheer  exuberance  of  joy 
the  young  man  would  have  liked  to  go  over  and  hug 
her.  He  was  able  to  restrain  himself  and  to  take  the 
chair  she  indicated  to  him  after  they  had  shaken  hands. 

She  offered  him  a  cup  of  tea,  and  when  he  took 
the  cup  from  her  his  hand  trembled,  and  he  almost 
spilled  the  liquid  in  the  lap  of  her  tight-fitting  cloth 
dress.  Shy  as  he  was  generally,  he  wished  now  that 
he  was  alone  with  this  friendly  girl,  and  that  he  might 
bid  her  rejoice  with  him  in  the  good  fortune,  bringing 
him  close  to  the  woman  he  loved. 

Mr.  Vivian  came  over  to  the  tea-table  and  stood  by 
Sartain's  chair.  "May  I  not  have  a  cup  of  tea,  too  ?" 
he  asked. 

"  You  poor  dear  !"  his  eldest  daughter  returned. 
"  I  forgot  all  about  you.  And  Mr.  Dircks,  too — won't 
he  have  some  ?" 

"  Dircks  would  not  wait,"  explained  Vivian. 


184  A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW 

And  Sartain  added,  "We  had  settled  everything  be 
fore  he  went." 

"  Then  he  will  let  Esther  go  with  us  ?"  Johnny 
went  on,  as  she  handed  a  cup  to  her  father. 

Sartain  looked  at  her  in  silent  surprise.  There  had 
been  no  talk  of  Esther's  going  anywhere  with  anybody. 

"I  had  a  little  chat  with  him  before  Sartain  joined 
us,"  said  Vivian,  "and  he  is  willing  to  give  his  con 
sent.  He  does  not  wish  to  be  separated  from  his 
daughter  for  so  long  a  period  as  six  months — and  that 
is  not  to  be  wondered  at.  But  he  sees  that  she  is 
worn  with  her  care  of  her  grandmother,  and  he  recog 
nizes  that  she  needs  change  of  scene.  He  is  ready  to 
trust  her  with  us." 

"  I  should  think  he  could  !"  cried  Johnny.  "  I 
don't  know  which  of  us  loves  her  most.  He  can  be 
sure  we'll  all  take  the  best  of  care  of  her." 

"Is  —  is  Miss  Esther  going  anywhere  with  you?" 
Sartain  managed  to  ask  at  last. 

"Why,  don't  you  know  ?"  she  returned.  "We  are 
all  off  to  Europe  early  in  April,  to  be  gone  till  October, 
and  we  want  to  take  Esther  with  us." 

"  To  Europe  ?"  Sartain  repeated.    "  For  six  months?" 

"It  ought  to  benefit  the  child,"  said  Vivian,  "and  I 
think  we  can  make  her  have  a  good  time." 

In  the  presence  of  Johnny's  father  the  young  man 
did  not  venture  to  say  anything  more.  But  his  heart 
sank,  and  his  joy  was  withered  in  an  instant.  He 
looked  at  Johnny  pitifully,  and  was  surprised  to  see 
upon  her  face  the  same  enigmatical  expression  he  had 
seen  there  more  than  once  before.  This  time  he 
thought  that  there  was  a  vague  suggestion  in  it  of  de 
fiance  or  of  bravado,  he  did  not  know  which. 


A   CONFIDENT  TO-MORROW  185 

"  I  told  Adams  we  thought  of  making  a  little  trip  to 
see  the  castles  of  Touraine,"  continued  Vivian,  "and 
he  says  that,  if  we  do,  he  will  run  down  and  join  us." 

"It  will  be  great  fun  to  have  Madams  with  us," 
Johnny  agreed,  with  a  sudden  light  in  her  eye  as  though 
this  were  news  she  had  not  expected. 

Sartain  set  his  cup  down  almost  untasted.  Two  or 
three  minutes  later  he  was  out  in  the  open  air,  trying 
to  readjust  himself  to  this  unforeseen  turn  of  events. 

He  took  a  long  walk  in  Central  Park,  and  he  reached 
the  boarding-house  a  little  late  for  the  cold  supper 
which  was  served  there  every  Sunday  at  half-past  six. 


CHAPTER    XIV 

AFTER  his  supper  the  author  of  Dust  and  Ashes 
took  the  manuscript  of  that  novel  out  of  the  trunk 
where  he  had  packed  it  away,  and  read  it  Avith  the 
utmost  care.  His  work  on  A  Wolf  at  the  Door  had  put 
a  gulf  between  him  and  the  earlier  story  ;  and  he  was 
now  able  to  survey  his  novel  with  detachment  and  a 
sense  of  perspective.  He  liked  it  better  than  he  had 
hoped ;  it  had  something  in  it,  after  all ;  the  local  color 
was  not  always  applied  in  the  right  place,  but  this 
was  not  beyond  remedy.  On  the  whole,  and  with  all 
its  faults,  more  obvious  to  him  now  than  ever  before, 
Dust  and  Ashes  seemed  to  its  author  worthy  of  publi 
cation. 

He  was  anxious  to  learn  what  Vivian  would  think  of 
it ;  and  on  Monday  morning,  before  going  to  the  office 
of  Carington  &  Company,  he  went  up  to  Central  Park 
and  delivered  the  manuscript  to  the  white -capped 
maid. 

He  began  to  make  plans  for  the  conduct  of  Man 
hattan.  He  wrote  a  tentative  letter  to  the  Topeka 
friend  whom  he  had  in  view  as  the  proper  publisher 
of  the  journal  he  was  to  edit.  He  went  to  the  Fried 
Cat  on  Monday  to  dine,  and  he  renewed  his  acquaint 
ance  with  Shields  and  Quinn,  and  was  introduced  to 
half  a  dozen  other  newspaper  workers,  to  whom  he 


A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW  187 

said  nothing  about  the  new  Manhattan,  but  from  whom 
he  extracted  not  a  little  information  about  the  prices 
paid  in  New  York  for  literary  work  and  about  the 
men  who  had  special  knowledge  on  various  subjects. 
He  came  to  the  conclusion  that  Shields  himself  could 
be  made  useful  in  a  variety  of  ways,  and  Jerry  Quinn 
also. 

On  Thursday,  Sartain  received  a  brief  note  from 
Vivian,  asking  if  he  could  make  it  convenient  to  call 
Saturday  afternoon  about  four. 

Promptly  at  the  hour  named  the  young  man  pre 
sented  himself,  and  was  shown  at  once  into  Mr.  Viv 
ian's  library.  The  manuscript  of  his  novel  was  on  the 
table. 

"I  have  finished  it,  and  I  like  it,"  said  the  host  at 
once.  "  It  interested  me,  and  that  is  the  prime  qual 
ity.  What  I  like  most  about  it  is  its  youthfulness,  its 
freshness,  its  fervor,  its  ardor,  its  hearty  confidence  in 
the  future,  its  belief  that  there  is  a  good  time  coming, 
and  coming  very  soon." 

"  I  suppose  that's  what  I  do  believe,"  the  author  re 
sponded,  "  but  I  didn't  know  I'd  put  it  in  the  book." 

"Can  we  keep  anything  out  of  a  book  that  is  in 
us  ?"  asked  Vivian.  "  Is  it  not  rather  true  that  we 
cannot  put  anything  into  a  book  except  ourselves — 
what  we  know,  what  we  have  seen,  what  we  have  felt, 
what  we  have  thought,  and,  above  all,  what  we  are  ? 
I  suppose  the  real  reason  why  I  like  your  book  is  that 
I  like  you — and  I  find  you  in  it." 

"  If  only  those  like  the  book  who  know  me  and  like 
me,  I  don't  think  I  can  count  on  a  very  large  sale," 
the  young  man  responded,  flushing  with  the  pleasure 
of  hearing  the  other  express  a  kindly  feeling  for  him. 


188  A   CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW 

"  I  suppose  the  fellows  who  don't  like  me  will  find 
lots  to  pick  at/' 

"Yes,"  Vivian  said,  honestly.  "The  book  abounds 
in  faults — but  most  of  them  are  the  result  of  inex 
perience,  perhaps  all  of  them.  It  has  the  advantages 
of  your  youth,  and  it  has  also  the  disadvantages.  It 
is  immature,  of  course." 

"  Then  you  would  not  advise  me  to  use  it  as  a  serial 
in  Manhattan  9"  Sartain  asked,  sorrowfully. 

"But  I  should  !"  cried  Vivian.  "And  I  would  not 
try  to  smooth  it  out  any  more.  Let  it  go  as  it  is — to 
touch  it  now  is  to  risk  the  danger  of  ruining  it.  But 
if  I  may  make  a  suggestion,  I  would  not  sign  it.  Do 
you  remember  Jerrold's  jibe  against  the  young  author 
who  '  took  down  his  shutters  before  he  had  anything 
to  put  in  the  shop-windows  ?'  Of  course,  that  does 
not  apply  to  you  ;  but  it  has  a  kernel  of  wisdom.  If  I 
were  you  I  would  sign  Dust  and  Ashes  with  a  pen- 
name.  If  it  hits  the  public  taste,  you  can  always  dis 
close  your  identity." 

"  Isn't  that  a  little  cowardly  ?"  the  young  author 
asked. 

"  It  is  what  Dickens  did,  and  Thackeray  and  George 
Eliot,"  replied  the  elder.  "It  comports  with  the  rules 
of  the  courts,  that  no  man  is  bound  to  criminate  him 
self." 

While  they  were  discussing  this  there  was  a  rap  at 
the  door  and  the  maid  ushered  in  Dircks.  The  old 
man  entered  the  room  less  sluggish  in  his  movements 
than  usual. 

"Well  ?"  said  Vivian,  as  they  shook  hands. 

"I  bought  it," Dircks  answered,  and  Sartain's  heart 
leaped ;  he  was  to  be  the  editor  of  Manhattan,  after  all. 


A   CONFIDENT  TO-MORROW  189 

"  When  do  you  take  possession  ?"  asked  the  host. 

"They  said  they'd  got  contracts  to  fill/'  Dircks  re 
sponded,  "  and  they  want  two  weeks  more.  That  '11  be 
on  the  20th." 

"If  I'm  going  to  run  the  paper/'  said  Sartain,  "I 
shall  be  very  glad  of  a  fortnight  to  get  ready  in.  I 
heard  from  Truax  this  morning — he's  the  man  I  think 
would  be  the  best  publisher.  He's  out  of  a  job  now." 

"When  is  he  coming  here  ?"  Dircks  responded. 

"  He  can  come  at  once,  if  you  engage  him/'  was 
Sartain's  answer. 

"You  telegraph  him  to-night/'  returned  the  old 
man.  "  There  ain't  no  time  to  lose." 

Then  Mr.  Vivian  rose  to  his  feet  and  interrupted 
them.  "  You  two  have  various  little  matters  of  busi 
ness  to  settle  sooner  or  later.  Why  not  do  this  now  ? 
I  will  leave  you  alone  here,  and  when  all  is  arranged 
you  can  join  us  in  the  front  room."  With  that  he  left 
them. 

The  future  editor  of  Manhattan  and  the  future 
owner  came  to  terms  rapidly.  The  publisher  and  the 
editor  were  each  to  have  a  small  weekly  salary,  with  a 
percentage  of  the  profits,  whenever  there  should  be 
any.  Until  after  the  paper  paid  expenses  the  editor's 
own  contributions  were  to  be  gratuitous ;  he  did  not 
even  ask  to  be  remunerated  for  Dust  and  Ashes,  the 
serial  publication  of  which  he  intended  to  begin  within 
a  month  after  they  should  acquire  control.  He  ex 
pected  to  Avrite  most  of  the  political  matter  himself, 
and  much  of  the  literary  criticism.  Probably  there 
would  be  only  five  or  six  or  seven  pages  to  fill  with 
outside  contributions.  He  proposed  to  have  these 
signed,  as  far  as  possible,  so  that  the  opinions  ex- 


190  A   CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW 

pressed  might  be  warranted  by  the  writers'  names. 
To  do  this  would  require  about  a  hundred  dollars  a 
week ;  and  he  thought,  also,  that  the  publisher  should 
have  an  allowance  of  the  same  amount,  to  be  spent  in 
judicious  advertising. 

Dircks  listened  attentively  as  Sartain  expounded 
these  views,  and  he  nodded  whenever  the  other  paused 
after  making  a  point.  The  young  man  discovered  that 
Dircks  was  far  more  inarticulate  than  he,  and  this  em 
boldened  him  to  talk  freely.  His  own  self-conscious 
ness  left  him  when  he  was  aware  that  the  man  he  was 
addressing  was  even  shyer. 

When  he  had  made  an  end,  all  that  Dircks  responded 
was,  "  That's  right.  I  got  the  money.  You  make  the 
paper.  You  tell  the  truth  in  it,  and  give  it  to  'em  hot 
and  heavy  !  I  pay  the  bill." 

Then  they  went  forward  to  the  drawing-room,  and 
found  Esther  near  the  centre  window,  talking  to  Mr. 
Vivian.  Sartain  saw  that  she  looked  almost  as  worn 
and  wan  as  when  she  first  returned  from  Wisconsin. 

Johnny  came  forward  and  asked  Mr.  Dircks  whether 
Esther  would  be  ready  to  sail  with  them  the  first  week 
in  April.  Sartain's  heart  sank,  as  it  did  always  when 
he  thought  of  her  departure.  Despite  Johnny's  efforts 
to  draw  him  into  the  conversation,  he  stood  apart  for 
a  few  minutes,  watching  Esther  and  Vivian.  The  more 
closely  he  observed  them  the  more  convinced  he  be 
came,  not  only  that  Esther  did  not  suspect  the  force 
of  the  liking  entertained  for  her  by  the  father  of  her 
two  school-fellows,  but  also  that  Vivian  himself  did  not 
understand  his  own  feelings.  Sartaiu  almost  laughed 
aloud  when  the  humor  of  the  situation  dawned  upon 
him,  that  here  before  him  was  a  man  in  love  with  a 


A   CONFIDENT   'BfcrMORROW  191 

pretty  girl,  and  the  man  did  not  suspect  it  himself — 
and  this  unsuspecting  lover  was  the  author  of  novels 
highly  commended  for  their  delicate  analysis  of  subtle 
emotion. 

Then,  at  last,  Esther  felt  the  force  of  his  gaze,  and 
turned.  When  she  saw  him  she  smiled,  and  there 
came  a  faint  flush  on  her  cheeks.  Mr.  Vivian's  eyes 
followed  hers,  and  in  a  few  seconds  Esther  was  stand 
ing  by  her  father's  side  chatting  with  Sartain,  while 
the  host  was  asking  the  old  man  if  their  business  talk 
had  been  satisfactory.  Johnny  sat  silent,  looking  in 
tently  from  Esther  to  Sartain.  The  young  man  was 
a  little  uncomfortable  under  this  inspection — he  did 
not  know  why. 

He  was  not  sorry  when  Dircks  broke  up  the  con 
versation  by  telling  Esther  it  was  time  for  them  to  go. 
Sartain  took  leave  of  the  Vivians  at  the  same  moment, 
again  thanking  the  elder  novelist  for  his  kindness  in 
reading  Duxt  and  AsJiex. 

In  the  Broadway  car,  going  down,  Dircks  was  even 
more  taciturn  than  usual.  Apparently  absorbed  in  his 
own  thoughts,  he  left  the  young  people  to  themselves. 
It  was  a  windy  March  day,  and  there  was  little  warmth 
in  the  late  sunshine,  but  it  lighted  the  gold  of  her 
hair  and  brought  out  the  paleness  of  her  complexion. 
Loath  as  Sartain  was  to  have  her  go  to  Europe,  he  saw 
that  she  needed  rest  and  change  ;  and  he  did  not  doubt 
that  travel  would  be  good  for  her.  Her  slight  figure 
seemed  to  him  even  more  fragile  than  ever.  The  Sat 
urday,  afternoon  throng  was  thick  on  the  sidewalks, 
and  the  car  itself  filled  rapidly  as  it  passed  the  thea 
tres  where  the  matinees  were  just  concluded,  and  there 
was  no  lack  of  handsome  women  in  all  the  glow  of 


192  A    CONFIDENT  TO-MORROW 

health.  But  no  other  girl  had  the  exquisite  grace  he 
found  in  her,  and  no  other  radiated  the  same  ineffable 
fascination. 

He  wanted  to  ask  her  many  questions  about  herself, 
and  yet  he  did  not  know  where  to  begin.  While  he 
was  hesitating  she  turned  and  said  with  a  delicious 
smile,  "So  father  has  bought  his  paper  and  you  are  to 
edit  it  for  him.  Now  I  want  you  to  promise  me  one 
thing." 

He  glowed  with  pleasure  at  this  appeal  as  he  an 
swered  that  he  would  be  delighted  to  do  anything  he 
could  for  her. 

"You  will  not  let  father  get  too  excited/'  she  ex 
plained. 

"  Too  excited  ?"  he  echoed,  in  surprise. 

"I  know  he  must  seem  very  quiet  to  you,"  she  con 
tinued.  "But  he  isn't,  really — that  is,  not  all  the  time. 
Sometimes,  when  he  is  very  much  interested  in  any 
thing,  he  gets  all  wrought  up — just  as  he  did  at  the 
Contemporary  that  night,  you  remember  ?  And  that 
isn't  good  for  him,  is  it  ?  Besides,  I  never  know  what 
he  will  do  when  he  is  excited." 

Sartain  told  her  that  he  did  not  see  any  probable 
cause  of  undue  emotion  in  Mr.  Dircks's  ownership  of 
Manhattan. 

"  I  do  not  know  about  that,"  the  girl  returned ; 
"  isn't  it  to  be  a  political  paper  ?  Are  you  not  going  to 
try  to  help  change  society  ?  That's  what  father  says." 

"Yes,"  he  answered.  "We  are  going  to  try  to 
make  the  world  better — but  we  don't  expect  to  do  it 
overnight,  you  know." 

"Are  you  sure  father  doesn't  ?"  was  her  shrewd 
question. 


A   CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW  193 

"I'm  not  young  enough  to  believe  that  any  reform 
is  achieved  in  a  hurry,"  he  responded;  "and  your 
father  is  older  than  I." 

"That's  all  very  well/"  she  said,  "but  you  don't 
know  father  as  well  as  I  do.  Father  doesn't  like  going 
slow." 

Then  he  set  out  to  explain  to  her  just  what  it  was 
he  hoped  to  accomplish  with  the  weekly  after  they  had 
made  it  so  interesting  that  people  would  have  to  buy 
it.  He  spread  out  his  hopes  before  her,  and  his  lofty 
desires  ;  he  expounded  the  reasons  for  the  faith  that 
was  in  him  that  the  world  could  be  made  better ;  he 
etched  the  evils  he  meant  to  attack  and  to  destroy ;  he 
caressed  the  ideal  of  good  that  he  was  determined  to 
turn  into  a  reality. 

His  enthusiasm  was  contagious,  and  as  they  were 
leaving  the  car  at  Seventeenth  Street  on  their  way  to 
Stuyvesant  Square,  she  cried,  "  How  interesting  it 
must  be  to  be  a  man  and  to  go  into  the  world  and  do 
things  !  I  don't  know  that  I  ever  wished  to  be  a  man 
— it  seems  to  me  ever  so  much  nicer  to  be  a  girl — 
but  yon  almost  make  me  think  that  a  man  is  more 
useful." 

This  turned  the  current  of  their  talk  from  Man 
hattan  to  themselves,  or,  rather,  to  a  discussion  of 
the  relative  importance  of  man  and  woman,  in  which 
they  each  used  themselves  as  types.  This  debate  car 
ried  them  happily  to  the  door  of  the  house  where  she 
lived. 

Dircks  had  walked  on  the  other  side  of  his  daughter, 
taking  no  part  in  the  talk.  Now  he  roused  himself 
from  his  revery. 

"You  send  that  telegram  to-night,"  he  said. 

13 


194  A   CONFIDENT  TO-MORROW 

"  That  telegram  ?"  Sartain  replied.   "  Oh,  to  Truax  !" 

"Yes,    Truax    was   his   name,"    Dircks   answered. 

"You  tell  him  to  get  here  as  soon  as  he  can.     We 

can't  begin  too  soon  if  we  want  to  make  the  rich  man 

sorry  he  was  born." 


CHAPTER  XV 

IXTO  the  ensuing  four  weeks  were  compacted  more 
hard  work,  both  mental  and  physical,  and  more  stress 
and  excitement  than  had  been  contained  in  any  previ 
ous  month  of  Sartain's  existence,  for  in  them  he  got 
out  two  numbers  of  Manhattan  and  he  saw  Esther 
Dircks  off  for  Europe. 

On  Monday  Truax  arrived,  a  wizened  young  man, 
who  was  a  New-Yorker  by  birth  and  who  was  delighted 
to  get  back  to  New  York. 

"  That's  the  right  idea,  to  have  signed  articles,"  he 
declared,  "  and  get  specialists  to  write  'em,  too.  The 
public  likes  to  be  instructed  by  a  man  who  really 
knows  about  a  thing.  Have  as  much  as  you  can  writ 
ten  outside  the  office,  too ;  that's  the  only  way  you  can 
get  variety.  And  don't  have  anything  to  do  with  any 
fellow  who  is  recommended  to  you  as  an  'all-round 
newspaper -man'  —  he's  absolutely  the  most  ignorant 
creature  in  the  world.  He  doesn't  know  anything  at 
all,  except  what  he  has  read  in  the  papers." 

In  other  ways  the  advice  of  Truax  was  excellent. 
"If  I  were  you,  I'd  have  all  the  short  stories  about 
New  York,"  he  declared.  "  You  pass  the  word  around 
Park  Row  that  you  want  the  kind  of  local  sketch  that 
gets  into  the  Sunday  papers,  that  you  will  let  the 
writers  sign,  and  that  you'll  pay  magazine  prices,  and 


196  A   CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW 

you  can  have  your  pick  and  get  the  best.  I'd  call  that 
department  '  Tales  of  the  Town." ' 

In  the  course  of  the  week  Sartain  took  Truax  to  the 
Fried  Cat,  and  there  they  met  half  a  dozen  young 
men,  all  eager  to  contribute  to  the  new  Manhattan. 
Adams  dropped  in  also,  and  was  persuaded  to  write  a 
signed  criticism  of  the  spring  exhibitions. 

"  All  right,"  said  the  artist,  "  if  you  want  me  to  do 
the  Academy  and  the  Artists,  I'll  do  them.  But  if 
you  expect  me  to  scorch  up  and  down,  and  knock  the 
stuffing  out  of  some  of  those  old  figure-heads,  you'll 
get  left,  that's  all.  I  shall  pick  out  the  half-dozen 
best  things  and  I'll  praise  those,  if  you  like.  I'll  tell 
the  public  just  why  these  things  are  good.  But  you'll 
be  disappointed  if  you  want  spicy  writing.  I'm  not 
going  to  jump  on  my  competitors  in  business,  am  I  ? 
I  can  afford  to  praise  them — at  least,  I'll  risk  it ;  but 
I'm  certain  sure  I  can't  afford  to  abuse  them." 

Adams  asked  various  questions  about  the  paper,  and 
dropped  valuable  hints. 

"  I  hope  you're  not  going  to  have  a  Woman's  Col 
umn,  with  portraits  of  the  Third  Vice-president  pro 
tern,  of  the  Harlem  Ladies'  Debating  Club,"  said  he. 
"  There's  only  one  thing  more  painful  to  me  than  a 
Woman's  Column,  and  that's  Household  Hints,  with 
practical  articles  on  '  How  to  Make  a  Folding-bed  out 
of  a  Soap-box. "; 

Sartain  assured  him  that  there  was  nothing  of  that 
sort  in  Manhattan,  but  that  he  hoped  to  be  able  to 
interest  the  women  of  New  York. 

' '  Then  you  must  go  for  them,  hot  and  heavy,"  re 
turned  Adams.  "  Say  they  are  a  Reversion  to  the 
Primitive  Type.  They  like  to  be  scolded  by  a  man — 


A   CONFIDENT    TO-MORROW  197 

they  like  nothing  better.  Don't  you  remember  those 
'  Girl-of-the-Period' papers,  how  they  hit  homeland  how 
the  women  devoured  them  ?  And,  by-the-way,  I  can 
give  you  a  bully  title  for  a  'Girl-of-the-Period'  pa 
per.  I  was  in  a  big  department-store  this  afternoon; 
they  were  rebuilding  part  of  it,  and  I  suppose  that's 
why  I  saw  a  sign  on  a  door,  '  Temporary  Ladies'  Dress 
ing-room.'  I  laughed  right  out,  and  the  floor- walker 
looked  at  me  sorrowfully.  But  I  couldn't  help  it — I 
know  such  lots  of  women  who  are  only  temporary 
ladies  ;  don't  you  ?" 

Although  lightness  of  touch  was  not  Sartain's  most 
obvious  characteristic,  he  was  quick  enough  to  see 
that  an  amusing  little  essay  might  be  written  up  to  a 
title  like  "  Temporary  Ladies."  He  thanked  Adams 
for  the  suggestion,  and  asked  for  more. 

''Til  get  out  a  search-warrant  for  my  stray  ideas," 
Adams  responded  ;  "and  you  shall  have  any  more  that 
are  worth  while.  I'll  help  you  out,  if  I  can.  I  think 
you've  got  hold  of  a  big  thing.  There  are  four  millions 
of  people  right  around  us  here  in  New  York.  Now  if 
you  can  make  a  paper  for  them,  first  of  all,  you'll  get 
all  the  circulation  you  want.  And  then  the  other 
sixty-six  millions  in  the  rest  of  the  United  States  are 
sitting  up  nights  to  find  out  all  about  our  goings-on 
here.  What's  interesting  here  in  New  York  is  interest 
ing  all  over  the  United  States." 

Another  casual  remark  of  Adams  was  to  the  effect 
that  very  few  of  the  people  living  in  New  York  knew 
anything  at  all  about  its  local  history. 

Sartain  laughingly  admitted  that  he  himself  was 
as  ignorant  as  any  one  on  this  point.  The  next  day 
he  went  to  the  library  and  looked  up  the  books  in 


108  A   CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW 

which  the  history  of  the  city  was  set  forth.  To  his 
surprise  he  discovered  that  the  annals  of  New  York 
were  both  picturesque  and  interesting.  The  notes 
taken  during  that  first  day's  work  on  the  history  of 
New  York  suggested  to  him  that  it  would  be  attrac 
tive  to  publish  in  Manhattan  a  series  of  anecdotic 
papers  on  points  of  interest  in  the  city — the  Battery, 
the  City  Hall  Park,  Union  Square,  Central  Park,  and 
the  Riverside  Drive. 

These  notes  also  helped  in  preparing  the  opening 
article  in  the  first  number  he  edited.  In  this  rather 
high-strung  essay  Sartain  declared  that  New  York  was 
not  only  the  gateway  of  all  America,  the  emporium  of 
a  republican  empire,  the  caravansary  of  a  continent, 
it  was  also  the  true  cosmopolis,  the  real  world-city, 
with  an  honorable  past  and  a  triumphant  future.  The 
struggle  visible  in  the  streets  to-day  was  mightier  than 
any  battle  of  any  ancient  war,  and  it  was  worthier  of 
epic  treatment.  The  plume  of  steam  that  waved  from 
the  top  of  every  tall  building  was  like  the  white  feather 
of  Henry  of  Navarre  ;  it  was  to  be  seen  in  the  midst  of 
the  mellay  only,  in  the  thickest  of  the  tussle.  Then 
he  pointed  his  moral  to  the  effect  that  we  New-York 
ers  ought  to  take  pride  in  our  noble  town,  and  that 
we  ought  to  be  unceasing  in  our  efforts  to  improve  it 
by  bettering  the  conditions  of  life  for  the  laborer,  by 
making  the  city  clean  and  healthy,  and  by  adminis 
tering  its  imperial  revenues  honestly  and  judiciously. 

When  Vivian  saw  Sartain,  after  the  appearance  of 
the  number  of  Manhattan  containing  this  resonant 
eulogy  of  the  city,  he  said,  smiling  :  "  I  think  you  said 
as  much  for  New  York  as  you  very  well  could.  But 
you  must  not  overdo  it.  Excess  of  pride  always  in- 


A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW  199 

vites  a  protest.  You  remember  what  Lowell  wrote  in 
a  private  letter  once,  thirty  or  forty  years  ago  ?  That 
New  York  was  not  Paris,  but  rather  plaster  of  Paris — 
•  a  bad  cast  of  a  Bernini  original.'  That  is  as  far  be 
low  the  truth,  I  think,  as  your  laudation  overtops  it." 

The  second  number  was  very  much  better,  so  the 
editor  thought.  He  began  in  it  to  publish  Dust  and 
Axhen  as  a  serial,  signing  it,  not  with  his  own  name, 
but  with  "S.  Francis,"  a  pseudonym  that  suggested 
its  real  author  to  those  who  knew. 

This  second  number  appeared  on  the  first  Thursday 
in  April,  the  morning  when  the  Vivians  were  to  sail 
for  Europe,  carrying  Esther  away  with  them,  and  the 
editor  took  a  copy  of  Manhattan  in  his  pocket  when 
he  went  to  the  dock  to  see  his  friends  off. 

During  the  month  of  Esther's  preparation  for  her 
European  trip,  Sartain  had  done  his  best  to  see  as 
much  of  her  as  he  could,  but  fortune  had  not  favored 
him.  He  had  gone  to  the  Vivians'  every  Saturday 
afternoon  in  the  hope  of  meeting  her,  but  she  was 
there  only  once,  and  then  the  twins  had  monopolized 
her.  He  had  called  in  Stuyvesant  Square  every  Sunday 
afternoon,  but  once  she  was  out,  and  once  her  father 
had  insisted  on  his  discussion  of  certain  details  of  pub 
lishing,  and  once  there  were  other  callers  to  whom  she 
had  to  devote  herself.  He  would  have  called  in  the 
evening,  but  he  had  received  somehow  an  impression 
that  Dircks  liked  then  to  monopolize  his  daughter's 
society. 

One  afternoon  there  was,  and  only  one,  when  he  had 
her  all  to  himself  for  nearly  an  hour ;  they  talked 
about  her  travels  in  Europe,  and  about  his  labors  on 
Manhattan,  and  chiefly  about  themselves ;  and  Sar- 


200  A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW 

tain  had  returned  to  his  boarding-house  with  joy  in 
his  heart  that  he  had  made  another  great  advance  in 
intimacy,  only  to  find  on  the  Saturday  following,  when 
he  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  at  the  Vivians',  that  she 
had  gone  back  to  her  earlier  attitude  of  remote  friend 
liness. 

The  day  came  all  too  swiftly  when  she  was  to  de 
part,  and  Sartain  awaked  with  a  dull  ache  in  his  heart 
and  with  an  insistent  depression.  The  ship  was  to 
start  at  eleven,  and  Sartain  arrived  on  the  pier  nearly 
an  hour  earlier,  to  find  the  shed  crowded  with  car 
riages,  express-wagons,  and  baggage-carts.  The  decks 
were  thronged  also,  and  the  gangways  were  almost  im 
passable. 

It  was  the  first  time  that  he  had  ever  set  foot  on  a 
great  ocean  -  steamer ;  and  it  was  with  keen  interest 
that  he  noted  all  he  saw  about  him — the  huge  boat 
itself,  the  active  attendants,  the  passengers  of  all  sorts, 
the  friends  who  had  come  down  to  bid  them  farewell. 
He  did  not  know  where  to  look  for  Esther.  He  walked 
through  the  broad  dining -saloon,  and  at  one  end  of 
the  central  table  he  saw  half  a  dozen  baskets  of  flowers 
with  dangling  cards,  revealing  that  they  had  been  sent 
to  one  or  another  of  Mr.  Vivian's  three  daughters. 
This,  then,  was  the  captain's  table  Sartain  had  heard 
them  talk  about.  On  it  he  also  found  the  basket  of 
fruit,  hot-house  grapes,  and  California  pears  that  he 
had  ordered  for  Esther.  Here  was  where  they  were  to 
sit,  but  they  themselves  were  not  here. 

He  made  his  way  to  the  spar-deck  with  difficulty, 
and  there  he  perceived  the  Vivians.  The  twins  were 
surrounded  by  a  group  of  brilliantly  dressed  girls  and 
of  faultlessly  attired  young  men,  all  talking  at  once 


A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW  201 

and  laughing  abundantly.  Adams  was  standing  on 
one  side  with  Johnny  and  her  father.  Sartain  handed 
Mr.  Vivian  a  copy  of  the  new  number  of  Manhattan. 

"  Do  you  recommend  it  as  a  panacea  for  sea-sick 
ness  ?"  asked  Adams.  "  If  it  really  is  efficacious,  you 
can  get  a  large  circulation  in  less  than  no  time." 

"  Why  does  not  Esther  come  up  on  deck  ?"  asked 
Vivian. 

"  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure/'  his  daughter  answered. 
"  I  left  her  with. her  bag  nearly  unpacked.  I  suppose 
she  is  having  a  few  last  words  with  her  father  down 
there." 

With  the  inconsistency  excusable  on  an  April  day, 
the  clouds  that  had  hung  low  early  in  the  morning 
had  now  all  cleared  away,  and  the  sky  was  reflected 
in  the  broad  river  almost  unflecked.  The  sun  shone 
fiercely,  and  there  was  only  an  intermittent  breeze 
blowing  in  from  Sandy  Hook.  Vivian  took  Sartain 
forward  to  show  the  young  man  his  own  deck  state 
room. 

They  were  gone  for  a  few  minutes  only,  and  when 
they  returned  they  found  Esther  talking  to  Johnny 
and  Adams,  while  Dircks  stood  silent  by  her  side. 

While  Mr.  Vivian  greeted  Dircks,  Sartain  stepped 
up  to  Esther,  and  in  a  moment  more  a  movement  of 
the  crowd  that  packed  the  deck  had  separated  them 
from  the  others. 

She  thanked  him  at  once  for  the  fruit,  and  said  it 
was  so  good  of  him  to  send  it,  and  declared  that  she 
was  especially  fond  of  grapes.  He  looked  at  her  with 
delight  and  sadness  commingled ;  it  was  a  joy  always 
to  be  near  her,  to  hear  her  voice,  to  gaze  at  her,  to  ad 
mire  the  exquisite  curve  of  her  mouth,  and  her  broad 


202  A    COXFIDEXT   TO-MORROW 

brow  with  its  straightly  pencilled  eyebrows;  it  was 
sorrow  to  know  that  he  could  not  have  this  happiness 
again  for  the  better  part  of  a  year. 

So  absorbed  was  he  in  these  thoughts  that  he  made 
no  response  to  her  little  speech  of  thanks  until  the 
silence  recalled  him  to  himself,  and  then  he  broke  out, 
"I  —  I'm  glad  you  like  grapes.  I  —  I  thought  they 
might  be  refreshing." 

Sartain  was  stabbed  by  jealousy  at  the  thought  of 
Vivian's  having  her  under  his  wing  for  six  long 
months.  In  that  time  the  elder  novelist  might  find 
out  that  he  was  in  love  with  her,  and  he  might  be 
able  to  persuade  her  to  marry  him. 

"  Miss  Esther  !"  he  broke  in,  abruptly,  as  this  picture 
arose  before  him ;  and  then,  all  at  once,  he  recognized 
the  absurdity  of  his  interference. 

"Yes?"  she  answered,  as  though  wondering  a  little 
at  his  sudden  warmth. 

"Oh,"  he  returned,  shamefaced,  "I  —  I  was  only 
going  to  ask  if — if  you  expect  to  be  long  in  England  ?" 

"We  are  going  straight  to  London,"  she  returned, 
"and  I  believe  we  are  to  stay  there  six  weeks,  or  till 
the  beginning  of  June.  Then  we  go  to  Paris  for  a 
little  while,  and  after  that  to  Carlsbad.  We  expect  to 
be  back  in  France  early  in  August,  and  then  we  run 
down  to  the  castles  on  the  Loire.  Mr.  Vivian  hasn't 
decided  what  we  are  to  do  after  that,  but  we  are  to  be 
home  about  the  first  of  October." 

"  Six  months,"  said  he  ;  "  that's  six  long  months." 

"  Yes,"  she  returned,  "  we  are  not  coming  home  for 
six  months." 

He  wanted  to  ask  her  if  she  really  wished  to  go  away 
so  long,  but  it  seemed  to  him  that  this  would  be  im- 


A   CONFIDENT  TO-MORROW  203 

pertinent.  From  her  manner  he  had  an  impression 
that  she  was  sailing  willingly  enough  and  yet  regret- 
fully. 

"  It  will  be  a  change  for  you/'  he  said,  "  to  go  to  all 
those  places  and  to  do  so  many  interesting  things." 

"  I  suppose  it  will,"  she  answered,  and  then  she 
sighed  gently,  or  Sartain  thought  she  did. 

"  I  hope  you  will  come  back  ever  so  much  stronger," 
he  continued. 

"  That's  why  I'm  going,"  she  said,  ' '  to  get  my 
strength  again." 

"  But  you  will  enjoy  it,  too,"  he  cried,  answering 
rather  what  he  thought  was  her  meaning.  "I  wish  I 
were  going  over  now  to  see  London  and  Paris,  to  tread 
the  streets  Thackeray  trod  and  Balzac." 

""\Viiy  can't  you  run  over  for  a  few  weeks  ?"  she 
asked ;  and  then  she  answered  her  own  question. 
"But  of  course  you  can't.  You  must  not  leave  the 
paper." 

"I  must  not  leave  the  paper,"  he  echoed. 

"And  you  must  not  leave  father,  either,"  she  re 
turned,  smiling.  "  Really,  I  think  I  am  showing  ex 
traordinary  confidence  in  you,  Mr.  Sartain,  to  trust  fa 
ther  with  you." 

He  thrilled  deliciously  at  this  assertion.  "I  didn't 
know  you  expected  me  to  take  care  of  Mr.  Dircks,"  he 
began,  "but  I'll  do  it,  since  you  wish  it." 

"I  do  wish  it,"  she  responded,  earnestly.  "I  shall 
be  ever  so  much  obliged  to  you  if  you  will  look  after 
him.  I  have  always  done  it  since  mother  died,  and, 
now  I'm  going  to  leave  him  for  the  first  time,  I  know 
he'll  be  lonely.  It  seems  very  selfish  of  me  to  go, 
doesn't  it  ? — and  I've  been  ready  to  back  out  a  dozen 


204  A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW 

times  this  last  fortnight.  But  I  shall  feel  ever  so  much 
safer  if  I  know  you  are  going  to  have  him  on  your 
mind,  and  to  see  that  he  doesn't  get  into  trouble." 
Then  the  mischievous  smile  which  was  one  of  her  chief 
fascinations  came  back. 

"I'll  do  my  best  for  him/' said  Sartain,  rejoicing 
that  she  had  given  him  a  commission. 

"Father's  such  a  big  baby  in  some  things,"  she 
went  on,  "and  he  needs  somebody  to  look  after  him." 

Sartain  had  given  himself  up  to  the  pleasure  of  this 
confidential  conversation  with  the  woman  he  loved, 
and  he  had  taken  no  heed  of  the  flight  of  time.  Now 
a  bell  clanged  repeatedly,  and  a  steward  passed  along 
the  deck  crying  out,  "Ashore  all  that's  going !" 

"  Where's  father  ?"  the  girl  asked,  and  Sartain  in 
stantly  recognized  his  own  selfishness  in  keeping  for 
himself  the  last  few  minutes  of  her  company  when 
her  father  was  parting  with  her  for  the  first  time. 

In  the  reflux  of  the  throng  which  began  now  to 
thin  out,  Esther  and  Sartain  were  able  soon  to  rejoin 
the  Vivians.  The  girl  seized  her  father  and  began  to 
give  him  her  final  instructions  in  an  eager  whisper. 

Vivian  and  Johnny,  Adams  and  Sartain,  stood  on 
one  side  while  the  male  friends  of  the  twins  made  their 
adieus  and  the  female  friends  began  to  exchange  their 
final  kisses  and  embraces. 

AVhen  these  young  friends  had  withdrawn,  leaving 
them  immense  bunches  of  roses,  Sartain  and  Adams 
shook  hands  with  all  the  Vivians  in  turn  before  Esther 
and  her  father  rejoined  the  group ;  and  then,  while 
Dircks  had  a  final  word  with  Mr.  Vivian,  Sartain  stepped 
aside  and  let  Adams  say  good-bye  to  Esther  first. 

At  last  he  held  her  hand  in  his  for  a  moment.     "  I 


A   COXFIDEXT  TO-MOBBOW  205 

hope  you  will  have  a  good  time,"  he  said,  "  aiid  come 
back  strong." 

"Thank  you,"  she  answered. 

"And  I'll  look  after  Mr.  Dircks,"  he  continued. 

"  Thank  you  for  that,  too,"  she  returned,  with  a 
smile,  although  he  thought  he  saw  a  tear  in  her  eye. 

He  walked  to  the  gang-plank  with  Adams,  leaving 
Dircks  alone  with  her  at  the  side  of  the  ship. 

"If  you  want  to  see  them  off,  you  had  best  get  a 
good  place  at  the  end  of  the  pier,"  suggested  Adams. 

Sartain  waited  till  Dircks  joined  them,  and  then 
they  went  down  the  shed  and  out  upon  the  open  space 
near  the  river.  Excited  as  the  young  man  was  by  the 
parting  from  Esther,  he  could  not  but  take  note  of 
the  scenes  on  all  sides  of  him,  of  the  revelation  of 
character  under  the  stress  of  impending  separation ; 
he  could  not  but  observe  the  mingled  humor  and  pa 
thos  to  be  discovered  at  the  sailing  of  a  great  ocean- 
steamer.  He  saw  that  here  was  material  for  literary 
use,  and  quite  unconsciously  he  began  to  contrive  how 
he  could  utilize  it  in  one  of  the  unwritten  chapters  of 
A  Wolf  at  the  Door. 

Just  in  front  of  him  were  a  score  of  young  fellows, 
decked  with  their  college  colors  and  making  them 
selves  hoarse  with  their  strident  and  staccato  college 
yell ;  and  to  these  violent  demonstrations  a  youth  in 
the  stern  of  the  ship  made  suitable  acknowledgment. 

The  boat  began  to  back  out  slowly  into  the  stream, 
escorted  by  a  pair  of  puffing  tugs  ;  and  soon  the  group 
glided  into  view  that  Dircks  and  Sartain  and  Adams 
were  waiting  to  see.  The  twins  were  leaning  against 
the  rail,  and  the  full  sunlight  brought  out  the  fiery 
redness  of  their  hair  ;  they  held  in  their  hands  the 


206  A   CONFIDENT  TO-MORROW 

gigantic  bunches  of  roses,  as  full-blown  as  they  were 
themselves,  and  when  they  came  opposite  to  the  bois 
terous  group  of  men  and  girls  who  had  come  down 
to  bid  them  farewell  they  picked  out  one  rose  after 
another  and  threw  them  over  on  the  pier-head  for  the 
young  men  to  scramble  for. 

Esther  stood  between  Johnny  and  Mr.  Vivian.  Sar- 
tain  guessed  that  she  was  exercising  all  the  self-con 
trol  she  had,  trying  not  to  weep  under  the  gaze  of  the 
father  whom  she  was  leaving  for  so  long.  Yet,  do  what 
she  would,  a  tear  trembled  from  the  lid  and  ran  spark 
ling  down  her  cheek  just  as  she  was  passing  them. 
Then  Sartain  saw  Johnny  clasp  her  with  a  protecting 
arm. 

The  steamer  slowly  backed  into  the  splendid  river, 
swung  around  and  steamed  away  on  its  three-thousand- 
mile  voyage. 

"\Vhen  the  boat  was  in  mid-stream,  and  the  faces  of 
those  on  board  could  no  longer  be  made  out,  Adams 
followed  the  example  of  the  great  majority  and  took 
his  departure.  But  Sartain  remained  with  Dircks, 
and  they  watched  the  boat  dwindle  down  in  the  dis 
tance  till  it  was  only  a  dark  spot  under  the  towering 
figure  of  Liberty. 


CHAPTER   XVI 

IT  was  about  the  middle  of  April  when  Esther 
Dircks  went  to  Europe,  and  she  did  not  return  to 
America  until  after  the  middle  of  October.  There 
were  days  during  those  six  months  when  Sartain  was 
ready  to  declare  that  he  had  never  known  time  to  go 
so  slowly.  He  missed  Esther  intensely,  and  she  was 
rarely  absent  from  his  thoughts.  But  he  was  very 
busy  also,  and  his  mind  was  so  incessantly  occupied 
with  Manhattan  that  it  was  not  often  he  had  leisure 
to  repine  or  to  commiserate  his  own  loneliness. 

He  kept  a  sharp  watch  for  the  news  of  the  arrival 
out  of  the  boat  which  bore  her  away ;  and  he  made  a 
careful  calculation  as  to  the  day  when  her  first  letter 
from  England  could  reach  her  father. 

When  he  guessed  that  the  old  man  had  received  this, 
he  called  to  get  Dircks's  opinion  on  some  point  in  the 
management  of  Manhattan,  and  before  the  interview 
was  over  he  had  extracted  from  her  father  most  of  the 
contents  of  the  hasty  note  she  had  written  on  the 
morning  they  landed.  He  was  glad  to  learn  that  the 
voyage  had  been  swift  and  smooth,  and  that  she 
thought  the  sea-air  had  done  her  good  already,  since 
her  appetite  was  rapidly  returning. 

Having  given  Sartain  this  much  information,  Dircks 
went  on  to  talk  about  his  daughter,  much  to  the  sur- 


208  A   CONFIDENT  TO-MORROW 

prise  of  the  young  man,  who  had  hitherto  found  her 
father  slow  of  speech,  not  to  say  taciturn.  It  was 
as  though  in  her  absence  there  was  one  subject  about 
which  he  must  speak,  at  whatever  cost  to  his  habit 
ual  restraint.  He  told  the  man  who  loved  her  how 
good  she  was  to  her  father,  how  tolerant  of  his  whims 
and  extravagances,  how  firm  when  his  vagaries  needed 
to  be  checked,  how  loving  always.  It  delighted  Sar- 
tain  to  hear  her  praised,  and  he  drank  in  every  word 
greedily,  agreeing  with  every  statement  her  father 
made.  Thus  was  established  the  habit,  on  Dircks's 
part,  of  reading  his  daughter's  letters  to  Sartain  as 
soon  as  they  were  received  ;  and  she  wrote  twice  a 
week  regularly. 

Nor  was  it  from  Dircks  alone  that  the  young  man 
got  news  of  the  woman  he  loved,  for  she  was  mentioned 
frequently  in  the  letters  that  Vivian  wrote.  As  it  hap 
pened,  a  novel  of  Vivian's  was  published  the  day  after 
the  author  had  gone  away  to  Europe.  For  the  number 
of  Manhattan  which  appeared  on  the  morning  that  the 
Vivians  landed  in  England,  Sartaiu  wrote  a  signed  re 
view  of  this  story,  in  which  he  expressed  his  high  admi 
ration  of  Vivian  as  a  novelist.  By  return  mail — that  is 
to  say,  in  less  than  three  weeks — there  came  a  letter 
from  Vivian,  written  in  his  careful,  copper-plate  hand, 
and  with  every  sentence  as  neatly  turned  as  though 
it  were  intended  for  publication,  thanking  the  young 
editor  for  his.  criticism  and  acknowledging  its  justice 
both  in  the  praise  and  the  blame  ;  the  former  might  be 
overstrained,  the  latter  was  not,  since  the  author  was 
well  aware  that  it  was  the  weak  spot  of  the  plot  the 
critic  had  put  his  finger  on. 

In  that  first  letter  Vivian  went  on  to  narrate  their 


A    CONFIDENT    TO-MORROW  209 

doings  in  London,  their  having  tea  on  the  terrace  of 
the  Houses  of  Parliament,  their  going  to  supper  on  the 
stage  of  a  famous  theatre  after  the  first  night  of  a  new 
play,  their  dinners  here  and  there  ;  and,  incidentally, 
Esther's  name  was  written  more  than  once,  and  at  the 
end  Vivian  bid  Sartain  tell  her  father  that  she  was  be 
ing  benefited  by  the  trip,  and  that  she  was  gaining 
strength  daily  in  consequence  of  the  change  of  scene. 

Here  Sartain  thought  he  saw  the  opportunity,  and 
he  answered  Vivian's  letter  at  once,  asking  advice 
about  Manhattan,  giving  the  latest  bits  of  literary 
gossip,  and  concluding  by  begging  Vivian  to  assure 
Miss  Esther  that  her  father  was  well,  and  that  he  was 
keeping  an  eye  on  him.  Thus,  all  through  the  sum 
mer,  Sartain  managed  to  maintain  communication  with 
Esther,  through  Vivian  on  one  side  and  through  Dircks 
on  the  other. 

In  the  meantime  he  was  keen  to  see  what  impression 
Dust  and  Ashes  was  making  on  the  public,  as  it  ap 
peared  week  by  week  in  the  paper.  He  had  not  con 
fessed  his  authorship  to  any  one  except  Truax  ;  and 
as  the  story  was  signed  with  the  name  of  "  S.  Francis," 
Frank  Sartain  was  not  giving  himself  away  when  he 
asked  Shields  and  Quinn  and  the  other  contributors 
how  they  liked  it.  Not  suspecting  his  personal  inter 
est  in  the  question,  they  one  and  all  confessed  that 
they  were  not  reading  it — they  never  did  read  serials. 

"I  don't  want  to  take  any  story  on  the  instalment 
plan,"  explained  Jerry  Quinn.  "  I  like  a  joint  of  roast 
beef  better  than  I  do  a  string  of  sausages." 

In  fact,  the  author  could  not  find  anybody  who  was 
reading  his  serial,  either  in  the  office  or  out.  He  ex 
amined  all  the  exchanges  eagerly  to  see  whether  any 


210  A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW 

of  the  other  papers,  the  dailies  or  the  weeklies  in  other 
cities,  had  not  a  good  word  to  say  for  this  story  by  "  S. 
Francis";  but  he  found  nothing.  It  seemed  to  him 
at  last  as  though  Dust  and  Ashes  was  being  paid  out 
into  a  vacuum,  week  by  week.  He  decided  finally  that 
he  Avould  willingly  have  seen  it  abused  by  every  critic  in 
the  country  rather  than  not  have  heard  from  it  at  all. 

When  they  took  possession  of  the  paper,  Truax  had 
sent  out  a  carefully  devised  announcement  of  the  new 
policy  of  Manhattan,  and  of  the  change  of  editor;  and 
this  paragraph  was  copied,  without  comment,  all  over 
the  eountry,  from  the  Gossip,  the  literary  weekly  of 
New  York,  to  the  Golden  Fleece,  the  literary  weekly  of 
San  Francisco. 

"It's  almost  worth  while  to  have  a  new  editor  now 
and  then,"  said  Truax;  "you  get  such  a  lot  of  free 
advertising  out  of  it,  if  you  know  how  to  go  about  it." 

"  You'll  get  something  else,  too,"  Jerry  Quinn  added ; 
"  you'll  get  all  the  shop-worn  manuscripts  in  the  coun 
try,  that's  what  you'll  get.  Every  fellow  who  has  his 
story  rejected  everywhere  will  take  it  down,  roll  it  up 
again,  and  send  it  to  you  within  twenty-four  hours  after 
he  reads  that  paragraph." 

"  That  accounts  for  the  number  of  impossible  stories 
I've  been  receiving  the  past  fortnight,"  said  the  new 
editor.  "  I  didn't  get  a  single  thing  fit  to  print  out 
of  the  first  hundred  I  dug  through," 

"  But  you  will,  though,"  declared  Shields.  "  I  re 
member  that  the  first  poem  of  mine  the  Arctic  accepted 
had  been  rejected  by  the  Dial  for  the  Sunday  paper, 
and  rejected  even  by  the  Gossip.  It's  true,  I  told  the 
Gossip  I  expected  to  be  paid  for  it,  and  then  it  came 
back  to  me  by  return  mail." 


A   CONFIDENT  TO-MOBROW  211 

"Did  the  Gossip  ask  yon  to  contribute  to  its  sym 
posium,  Clarry  ?"  asked  Jerry  Qninn  ;  "  the  one  they 
had  last  winter — the  one  about  the  nature  of  the  first 
message  we  should  try  to  send  to  Mars  ?" 

"  They  did  that,"  answered  the  Irishman  ;  "  and  they 
waxed  hot  in  the  collar  when  I  asked  them  how  much 
they  expected  to  pay  for  my  opinion.  They  said  they 
thought  I  would  be  glad  to  take  part  in  a  discussion  of 
great  public  interest.  I  told  them  that  I  would  take 
part,  with  pleasure,  for  ten  dollars  a  thousand  words. 
And  now  the  Gossip  is  always  criticising  my  verses 
and  saying  that  1  lack  the  divine  afflatus." 

"This  dunning  men  of  letters  for  gratuitous  copy 
seems  to  me  very  like  blackmail,"  Sartain  asserted. 
"Manhattan  is  going  on  the  principle  that  the  laborer 
is  worthy  of  his  hire." 

'•'  That's  so,"  said  Shields  ;  "what's  good  enough  to 
print  is  good  enough  to  pay  for  ;  that's  what  I  say." 

••I  don't  know  as  I'd  say  it,"  Jerry  returned,  "and 
I  don't  know  as  I  would.  They  are  paying  you  with 
the  ad. — remember  that.  There's  lots  of  us  always 
ready  to  advertise  ourselves,  and  mad  enough  if  we're 
left  out." 

This  conversation  took  place  one  afternoon  towards 
the  end  of  May  in  the  office  of  Manhattan,  which  was 
on  the  third  floor  of  a  shabby  old  house  in  Union 
Square,  a  dwelling  once,  and  now  let  out  to  tenants 
of  all  sorts.  Of  the  two  front  rooms  which  the  paper 
rented,  Truax  kept  the  larger  for  the  publishing  de 
partment,  and  on  the  partitioned  shelves  against  the 
Avails  were  stored  the  back  numbers.  The  smaller, 
which  had  originally  been  a  hall  bedroom,  was  re 
served  for  Sartain  as  the  editorial  sanctum.  It  con- 


212  A   CONFIDENT  TOMORROW 

tained  a  desk  in  fairly  good  repair,  a  cane-bottom  chair 
for  the  editor  himself,  and  a  wooden  settle,  on  which 
the  visiting  contributor  could  sit  comfortably.  It  was 
Truax  who  declared  that  it  would  never  do  to  make 
it  easy  for  callers,  or  they  would  stay  too  long. 

"  By  the  way,  Shields,"  Sartain  continued,  with  a 
little  hesitation,  "  there's  no  use  in  your  trying  to  tuck 
the  names  of  your  hatter  and  your  tailor  into  the  para 
graphs  you  send  in.  I'm  on  the  lookout  now,  and  I 
shall  kill  all  your  puffs." 

"Ah,  come  now,"  answered  Shields,  pleadingly, 
"  why  not  leave  me  in  one  now  and  then  ?  You  see, 
it's  this  way — if  I  say  a  good  word  for  my  tailor  in  the 
papers,  or  for  my  hatter,  or  for  the  man  who  makes  my 
shoes,  then  he's  never  in  so  great  a  hurry  to  bother 
me  with  his  bill." 

"If  any  man  wants  an  ad.  in  Manhattan  he  must 
step  up  to  the  captain's  office  and  pay  for  it,"  said 
Truax. 

"And  is  it  an  ad.  that  you'll  call  a  few  pleasant 
words  now  and  then  to  confer  happiness  on  a  worthy 
tradesman,  and  to  make  him  feel  a  little  less  distrust 
ful  ?"  Shields  rejoined.  "  And  you  don't  pretend  now 
to  make  your  Manhattan  any  more  high-toned,  as  you 
call  it,  than  the  Spectator — I  mean  the  original  Specta 
tor  of  Queen  Anne's  time  ?" 

Sartain  admitted  that  he  could  hardly  hope  to  main 
tain  a  higher  standard  than  Steele  and  Addison. 

"Well,  then,"  returned  Shields,  triumphantly,  "they 
did  it.  They  puffed  their  friends — and  I  don't  mean 
the  friends  they  had  a  dish  of  tea  with  or  a  glass  of  wine  ; 
I  mean  the  tradesmen  they  did  business  with — their  ad 
vertisers,  in  short.  In  the  Spectator,  and  in  the  Tatler, 


A   CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW  218 

too,  Steele  was  forever  saying  a  good  word  for  the  wine 
merchant  —  what's  that  his  name  was  ?  —  the  wine 
merchant  who  had  an  advertisement  on  the  last  page." 

"Did  you  see  the  way  the  Upper  Ten  jumped  on 
you  this  week,  Sartain  ?"  asked  Quinn.  "  They  call  yon 
the  Exile  from  Kansas,  and  the  Topeka  Fugitive,  and 
lots  of  other  things.  I  guess  they  want  you  to  notice 
them." 

"And  I'm  not  going  to  do  it,"  the  editor  asserted. 
"  Why  should  I  sink  Manhattan  to  the  level  of  the 
Upper  Ten?  I  hate  that  sort  of  thing,  anyway.  You 
know  what  Emerson  Adams  says.  He  says  Ameri 
can  journalism  is  like  Chinese  warfare — there's  so 
much  beating  of  the  tomtoms,  and  wearing  of  masks 
to  frighten  the  enemy,  and  throwing  of  stink-pots." 

"  I  wish  one  of  the  big  dailies  would  jump  on  us  ev 
ery  day — the  Gazette  now,  or  the  Dial,"  said  Tranx ; 
"that  would  be  an  ad.  if  you  like." 

"The  big  dailies  here  won't  take  any  notice  of  us," 
Sartain  admitted ;  "  but  the  out-of-town  papers  are 
very  friendly." 

"  If  that's  so,  why  not  get  up  something  to  please 
the  people  in  the  other  cities  ?"  suggested  Jerry  Quinn. 
"  It  would  be  a  big  joke  to  have  a  Chicago  letter  in 
your  New  York  weekly.  I  could  write  it  for  you  with 
out  leaving  my  seat." 

"  And  I  can  write  you  a  Boston  letter,  if  you'd  like 
it,"  Shields  asserted,  "and  one  that  they'd  think  was 
written  by  a  member  of  their  own  Brahmin  caste — 
barring  a  '  will '  for  a  '  shall '  here  and  there,  that  may 
be  you  could  put  straight  for  me." 

Thus  was  suggested  a  series  of  articles  which  did 
much  to  make  Manhattan  better  known.  In  the  first 


214  A   CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW 

issue  in  June,  a  notice  at  the  head  of  the  editorial 
column  announced  that  in  the  next  number  would 
appear  the  first  of  a  group  of  "Letters  from  Country 
Towns.  No.  I. — Chicago."  This  impertinently  effec 
tive  announcement  was  due  to  Emerson  Adams,  whom 
Sartain  had  told  about  the  new  series.  Quinn  wrote 
the  letter  from  Chicago  in  a  vein  of  ironic  humor, 
which  served  as  an  example  to  the  writers  of  the  other 
letters.  Adams  gave  Shields  the  latest  bits  of  im 
printed  personal  gossip  from  Boston,  and  as  a  result 
half  the  newspapers  in  New  England  made  editorial 
reference  to  "Letters  from  Country  Towns.  No. 
II. — Boston."  As  it  happened,  Truax  had  been  on  a 
Philadelphia  paper  for  a  few  months,  and  he  supplied 
the  local  color  needed  for  No.  III.,  one  allusion  in 
which  —  a  mention  of  the  sign  near  the  Red  Bridge, 
inviting  the  passer-by  to  partake  of  catfish  and  waffles 
— for  some  strange  reason,  stirred  the  wrath  of  the 
Pennsylvania!!  journalists,  who  promptly  abused  Man 
hattan. 

•These  letters  of  "  Asmodeus "  (for  such  was  the 
signature  Sartain  attached  to  them  all)  really  helped 
the  circulation  of  the  paper,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that 
July  is  generally  the  worst  month  in  the  year  for  the 
sale  of  a  weekly.  Sartain  was  a  little  chagrined  that 
these  girding  trifles  should  be  more  potent  in  arrest 
ing  public  attention  than  his  own  serial  story,  or  than 
the  serious  discussions  of  public  affairs  he  contributed 
every  week  editorially. 

The  sketches  and  letters  were  to  Sartain  of  value 
only  as  they  might  attract  readers  to  the  paper.  The 
object  for  which  the  paper  itself  existed  was  the  arous 
ing  of  public  opinion  against  the  inequalities  and  the 


A   CONFIDENT  TO-MORROW  215 

injustices  obvious  enough  in  the  structure  of  modern 
society.  He  was  not  a  shrill  and  blatant  assailant  of 
the  rich,  but  he  was  unceasing  in  pointing  out  the 
many  ways  in  which  the  present  organization  of  com 
merce  bore  down  heavily  on  the  poor ;  he  was  un 
sparing  in  his  attacks  on  those  corporations  which 
sought  to  set  themselves  above  the  law  ;  he  was  insist 
ent  in  holding  men  in  public  life  up  to  a  high  stand 
ard.  In  applying  these  principles  of  militant  journal 
ism,  as  he  understood  it,  he  had  the  support  of  Mr. 
Dircks,  who  was  always  particularly  pleased  when 
some  well-known  man  of  large  means  was  held  up  to 
obloquy  for  a  breach  of  the  law.  If  the  editor  had 
allowed  himself  to  be  influenced  unduly  by  the  owner, 
Manhattan  would  have  become  more  and  more  violent 
week  by  week. 

"  It  ain't  hot  enough  !"  the  old  man  would  say. 
"You  give  it  to  them  hot  and  heavy/' 

And  then  Sartain  would  try  in  vain  to  get  Dircks  to 
formulate  his  opinions.  Apparently  the  old  man  had 
never  thought  out  what  he  felt,  and  certainly  he  could 
not  make  his  views  clear  to  any  one  else.  Dircks's 
animosity  was  always  at  white  heat  for  the  prosper 
ous  evil  -  doer,  but  it  cooled  at  once  when  justice 
overtook  the  rascal.  Whether  or  not  the  man  de- 
sterved  the  punishment  about  to  be  bestowed  on  him 
had  nothing  to  do  with  Dircks's  feelings  towards 
him. 

"  What's  the  use  of  pounding  him  any  more  ?"  the 
old  man  asked  Sartain  one  day  in  September,  after  the 
publication  in  Manhattan  of  an  article  calling  for  the 
full  penalty  of  the  law  upon  a  recently  arrested  forger 
who  had  abused  a  trust  reposed  in  him.  "  The  man's 


216  A   CONFIDENT  TO-MORROW 

down,  ain't  he  ?  Well,  then,  why  not  let  up  on  him  ? 
Don't  hound  him  any  more." 

Sartain  told  Adams  about  this  when  they  dined  that 
evening  together  under  a  tent  in  the  back-yard  of  the 
Fried  Cat,  and  the  painter  said,  "That  makes  out  my 
theory  of  Dircks — that  he's  always  on  the  side  of  the 
under  dog,  even  when  the  under  dog  deserves  his  lick 
ing.  It's  very  curious,  I  confess,  and  I  don't  under 
stand  it,  but  that's  it,  I'm  sure.  If  Benedict  Arnold 
were  in  jail,  the  old  man  wouldn't  want  him  harshly 
dealt  with." 

"  How  does  that  fit  in  with  his  hatred  of  ill-gotten 
wealth  ?"  asked  Sartaiu. 

"  It's  got  to  fit  in  the  best  way  it  can,"  Adams  an 
swered.  "And  maybe,  after  all,  he  isn't  as  violent 
as  you  think  he  is.  It  isn't  so  very  radical,  is  it,  to 
want  to  set  the  classes  against  the  masses  ?" 

With  Adams,  who  had  been  obliged  to  forego  his 
trip  to  Europe,  on  account  of  a  commission  to  paint 
the  decorative  panels  for  the  ballroom  of  a  new  cot 
tage  at  Lenox,  in  which  the  first  dance  was  to  be  given 
in  September,  Sartain  took  his  share  of  the  summer 
amusements  of  the  city ;  they  ran  down  to  Coney 
Island  to  dine,  and  they  lounged  away  an  evening  now 
and  then  at  one  or  another  of  the  roof-gardens.  The 
summer  wore  away  slowly,  and  yet  when  it  was  over, 
and  when  October  came,  it  suddenly  seemed  to  Sar 
tain  as  though  the  six  months  had  fled  past  with  un 
precedented  swiftness. 


CHAPTER  XVTI 

TOWARDS  the  end  of  September,  an  editorial  article 
of  Sartain's  happened  to  hit  the  public  craving  for 
novelty.  The  municipal  election  was  unusually  im 
portant  that  year,  in  view  of  the  impending  consolida 
tion  of  Brooklyn  and  of  various  other  outlying  sub 
urbs  with  New  York.  Sartain  urged  that  the  enlarged 
metropolis  should  be  set  off  from  the  rest  of  the  State 
of  Xew  York  and  made  a  free  city,  administering  its 
own  affairs  under  a  new  charter,  and  entirely  without 
interference  from  Albany ;  and  that  this  reform  be 
embodied  in  a  constitutional  amendment.  The  Daily 
Dial  promptly  proceeded  to  hold  this  suggestion  up 
to  ridicule,  and  to  declare  that  the  hebetudinous  crank 
who  advanced  it  should  be  sent  back  to  the  asylum 
from  which  he  had  been  prematurely  discharged.  The 
next  day  the  Gotham  Gazette  (in  accordance  with  its 
established  habit  of  taking  the  side  opposite  to  that 
supported  by  the  Dial)  copied  Sartain's  article  in  full 
and  advocated  his  plan  in  a  column  editorial.  There 
upon  the  Dial  returned  to  the  attack  and  asserted 
that  such  a  scheme  appealed  to  only  scatter-brained 
incompetents  and  to  megalomaniac  rnattoids.  Then 
the  Gazette  sent  out  its  host  of  reporters  and  inter 
viewed  one  hundred  prominent  citizens,  asking  every 
one  whether  he  had  read  the  article  in  Manhattan  and 


218  A   CONFIDENT  TO-MOKKOW 

what  he  thought  of  the  plan  of  municipal  indepen 
dence  it  proposed.  As  a  result  of  this  discussion,  the 
whole  edition  of  that  week's  Manhattan  was  sold  out 
in  two  days  after  publication,  and  the  paper  had  to 
go  to  press  again.  Of  the  next  number,  ten  thousand 
copies  were  printed  boldly,  and  Sartain's  second  article 
on  "New  York  can  Stand  Alone"  was  adroitly  adver 
tised  in  all  the  leading  papers.  But  it  attracted  less 
attention  than  the  first,  for  the  scheme  was  no  longer 
a  novelty.  Still  the  circulation  rose  a  little,  and  Truax 
kept  on  advertising  inexpensively  but  effectively  the 
two  or  three  contributions  in  each  number  he  thought 
most  likely  to  please  the  popular  taste. 

Sartain  was  a  modest  young  man,  and,  with  all  his 
confidence  in  the  future,  he  did  not  overestimate  his 
own  immediate  importance  ;  yet  it  was  with  a  twinge 
of  regret  that  he  had  to  recognize  the  hard  fact  that 
the  serial  publication  of  Dust  and  Ashes  had  in  no 
wise  helped  the  circulation  of  the  journal  he  edited. 
As  a  result  of  this,  his  liking  for  it  returned  ;  there 
were  deficiencies  enough,  and  blemishes  not  a  few,  but 
it  was  an  honest  piece  of  work,  for  all  that,  and  not 
one  to  be  ashamed  of.  'With  this  in  his  mind,  he  did 
not  see  why  he  should  not  appeal  from  the  narrow  cir 
cle  that  had  been  glancing  over  Manhattan  to  the 
broader  body  that  read  books.  He  sent  the  pages  of 
the  paper  containing  Dust  and  Ashes  to  John  Eudder- 
f orth  &  Company,  the  publishers  of  Vivian's  books. 

A  fortnight  later  he  received  a  note  asking  him  to 
call  at  the  office  of  John  Kudderforth  &  Company. 
When  he  presented  himself,  he  was  told  that  their 
readers  had  reported  favorably  on  the  book,  and  that 
they  were  prepared  to  bring  it  out  immediately  on 


A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW  219 

the  usual  terms,  the  terms  they  always  offered  to  an 
unknown  author  for  his  first  book — ten  per  cent,  on 
the  published  price  after  the  sale  of  one  thousand 
copies.  Although  Sartain  thought  this  a  hard  bar 
gain,  he  accepted  with  delight. 

Dust  and  Ashes  was  published  a  few  days  before 
Esther  Dircks  returned.  The  night  before  publication 
a  package  containing  six  copies  was  delivered  at  the 
boarding-house  in  Irving  Place  ;  and  when  Sartain  had 
eagerly  uncovered  the  contents,  his  heart  was  filled 
with  joy.  Here  was  his  first-born,  at  last;  and  it 
seemed  to  him  a  very  promising  child.  He  dandled 
it  in  his  hands,  he  patted  the  back  of  the  volumes 
affectionately,  he  admired  the  brilliant  cover-stamp, 
he  was  shocked  when  he  opened  the  pages  and  his  eye 
fell  at  once  upon  the  inevitable  misprint.  He  put 
aside  a  copy  for  Esther  and  another  for  Vivian. 

Then  he  began  to  be  anxious  about  the  way  it  would 
be  received  by  the  critics.  Although  he  was  himself 
the  editor  of  a  critical  journal,  and  knew  that  the 
writers  of  book-reviews  were  human,  after  all,  like  the 
rest  of  us,  still  there  survived  in  him  a  dread  of  the 
tribunal  the  most  of  whose  members  were  masked. 
The  notices  came  in  time,  one  after  another,  favorable 
mostly,  and  mostly  perfunctory,  as  though  they  had 
been  written  in  a  hurry  after  a  hard  day's  work  by 
some  one  who  had  no  real  relish  for  literature. 

The  young  author  greedily  read  them  all,  good  or 
bad,  long  or  short.  He  found  himself  hungering  for 
them,  and  counting  that  day  lost  when  his  book  was 
not  praised  or  blamed  at  least  once  somewhere  in  the 
United  States.  He  would  go  into  the  book-stores  just 
to  see  if  Dust  and  Ashes  was  properly  displayed  on  the 


220  A   CONFIDENT  TO-MORROW 

shelves  ;  and  he  would  have  liked  to  ask  the  salesmen 
how  the  book  was  going,  if  this  had  not  seemed  to 
him  undignified.  Even  when  he  did  not  enter,  he 
peered  into  the  window  to  see  if  among  the  many  vol 
umes  there  displayed  he  could  detect  the  red  and  gold 
that  emblazoned  the  back  and  sides  of  his  book  ;  and 
he  looked  at  the  bulletin-boards  under  the  windows  of 
the  book-stores  to  see  if  any  of  them  contained  the 
poster  announcing  the  novel  he  had  written.  There 
were  times  when  he  was  disposed  to  declare  that  the 
book  publishers  did  not  advertise  as  well  as  the  theat 
rical  managers,  and  when  he  would  have  liked  to  see 
the  title  of  his  story  displayed  on  all  the  board  fences 
by  day  and  illuminated  in  electric  letters  against  the 
sky  by  night. 

It  was  perhaps  due  in  part  to  the  excitement  of  the 
publication  of  Dust  and  Ashes  that  he  was  able  to  work 
feverishly  on  A  Wolf  at  the  Door.  He  liked  the  second 
novel  better  than  the  first  ;  he  had  grappled  with  a 
stronger  theme,  and  he  had  been  more  skilful  in  his 
application  of  local  color.  There  were  scenes  in  A 
Wolf  at  the  Door  which  struck  Sartain  as  containing 
the  very  essence  of  New  York.  As  a  whole,  the  book 
seemed  to  him  more  than  pretty  fair,  although  it  was 
not  so  fine  as  he  had  hoped  to  make  it,  of  course.  It 
took  its  place  as  an  important  element  of  the  larger 
panorama  of  life  in  New  York  which  he  had  planned  to 
produce.  He  had  outlined  a  cycle  of  stories,  all  related 
and  all  independent;  they  were  to  be  more  closely  knit 
together  than  the  Chronicles  of  Barset,  but  not  so 
tightly  linked  as  the  Rougon-Macquart  series  ;  prob 
ably  the  Human  Comedy  was  the  best  model,  after  all. 

Of  all  the  creatures  of  his  imagination  the  one  he 


A   CONFIDENT  TO-MORROW  221 

had  taken  most  delight  in  depicting  was  the  heroine, 
who  was  an  idealization  of  Esther  Dircks  as  she  ap 
peared  to  her  lover.  While  trying  to  avoid  all  obvi 
ous  personalities,  he  had  given  to  the  girl  in  his  story 
the  physical  fascination  of  Esther  Dircks  and  her 
charm  of  manner,  and  even  some  of  her  peculiarities 
of  gesture.  Sometimes  he  was  seized  with  a  fear  that 
he  had  merely  photographed  her,  and  that  everybody 
who  read  the  book  would  recognize  her  at  once  ;  some 
times  he  thought  that  the  circumstances  in  which  the 
heroine  was  placed  were  so  different  from  any  in  which 
Esther  had  ever  found  herself  that  her  friends  would 
never  suspect  any  likeness ;  sometimes  he  was  even 
afraid  that  she  would  not  see  herself  in  his  heroine, 
and  that,  therefore,  she  would  not  thus  discover  how 
she  appeared  in  his  eyes  ;  and  sometimes  he  was  hor 
ror-stricken  at  the  supposition  that  she  might  deem 
his  deed  impertinent,  and  as  a  punishment  dismiss  him 
from  her  friendship. 

He  longed  for  the  sight  of  her  face  again,  and  for 
the  sound  of  her  voice.  As  October  wore  away,  and 
the  day  drew  nigh  when  the  boat  on  which  she  was 
sailing  homeward  with  the  Vivians  might  be  expected 
to  arrive,  he  became  almost  restless.  He  was  young 
and  healthy,  and  he  slept  well  at  night ;  but  by  day 
he  was  possessed  by  impatience.  He  did  his  work  in 
the  mornings  with  fierce  energy,  and  he  went  out  in 
the  afternoons  for  long  walks.  He  scanned  the  weather 
reports  before  breakfast,  to  make  sure  that  no  storm 
was  approaching  which  could  delay  her  arrival.  Twenty- 
four  hours  before  it  was  possible  for  the  vessel  to  reach 
our  shore,  even  if  the  voyage  were  to  break  the  record, 
he  seized  every  pretext  to  leave  the  office  and  to  rush 


222  A   CONFIDENT  TO-MORROW 

into  the  telegraph-station  to  ask  if  any  word  had  yet 
been  received  from  the  incoming  boat. 

Finally,  on  the  morning  of  the  last  Wednesday  in 
October,  Sartain  was  roused  about  six  o'clock,  and  a 
message  from  the  telegraph  company  informed  him 
that  the  ship  had  arrived  at  Quarantine,  and  would 
reach  the  company's  dock  a  little  before  eight  o'clock. 

It  was  a  little  after  seven  when  Sartain  walked  out 
on  the  pier-head  and  looked  down  the  bay  in  vain. 
Already  the  friends  and  families  of  the  expected  pas 
sengers  were  beginning  to  collect.  The  blue-coated 
custom-house  officers  were  gathered  in  knots  near  the 
mouth  of  the  immense  shed  that  covered  the  pier. 
The  engineer  was  getting  up  steam  in  a  small  engine 
that  served  the  derricks  which  were  to  lift  the  baggage 
out  of  the  hold.  Along  the  sides  of  the  shed,  at  equal 
intervals,  were  the  letters  of  the  alphabet,  and  thirty 
or  forty  porters  sat  on  their  trucks,  ready  to  wheel  the 
trunks  and  bundles  to  the  spaces  reserved  for  the  pas 
sengers  having  the  same  initial. 

All  these  preparations  Sartain  observed  with  im 
patience  ;  he  could  not  sit  still ;  he  began  pacing  up 
and  down  the  pier,  always  going  out  on  the  end  to  see 
if  the  steamer  were  yet  in  sight.  In  one  of  these  rapid 
walks  he  almost  ran  into  Esther's  father. 

"It's  very  good  of  you  to  come  down  here  just  to 
see  my  little  girl,"  said  Dircks,  piercing  Sartain  with 
a  swift  glance  from  under  his  beetling  eyebrows.  "I 
take  it  very  kindly  of  you." 

Sartain  wished  that  he  had  the  courage  to  tell  the 
old  man  that  he  loved  the  little  girl  quite  as  much  as 
her  father  did.  As  it  was,  he  did  not  know  what  to 
say.  Fortunately  Dircks  was  a  little  excited  also.  He 


A    CONFIDENT  TO-MOBBOW  223 

had  never  before  been  separated  from  his  only  child 
for  so  long  a  period.  He  walked  down  to  the  pier 
head  with  Sartain,  quite  as  impatient  as  the  young 
man  was,  and  wholly  unconscious  of  the  young  man's 
hesitation  in  responding  to  him. 

When  they  stepped  out  on  the  river  end  of  the 
wharf,  they  found  an  excited  group  pointing  down  the 
bay,  and  they  heard  one  voice  saying.  "  There  she  is  ! 
There  she  is  !  She'll  be  here  in  ten  minutes  now." 

A  stately  craft  was  to  be  seen  afar  steaming  up  the 
river  ;  but  it  was  more  than  fifteen  minutes  before 
she  checked  her  speed  opposite  to  the  company's  pier. 
While  the  tugboats  darted  forward  to  carry  the  cables 
that  were  to  warp  the  ship  in,  Sartain  and  Dircks 
tried  in  vain  to  pick  out  the  girl  they  were  there  to 
greet  from  among  the  hundreds  of  men  and  women 
who  crowded  the  deck  of  the  boat  and  who  were  wav 
ing  handkerchiefs  frantically  as  the  vessel  drew  nearer 
and  nearer. 

At  last  Dircks  cried,  "I  see  her  !     I  see  her !" 

'•'Where  ?"  asked  Sartain. 

"  There,"  the  old  man  answered,  pointing  with  his 
huge  finger;  " there — on  the  upper  deck,  under  the 
bridge — under  the  bridge,  see  ?  There's  those  two 
red-headed  girls,  and  that's  Esther  between  them.  I 
can  see  her  plain  enough,  but  she  don't  see  me."  And 
he  took  off  his  black  slouch  hat  and  swung  it  in  the 
air. 

Sartain  looked  where  her  father  told  him,  and  as  the 
boat  approached  he  was  able  slowly  to  make  sure  that 
the  woman  he  loved  was  again  in  sight. 

"I  do  hope  she 'ain't  been  sick  or  nothing,"  said 
Dircks. 


224  A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW 

"  She  looks  well/'  the  yonng  man  answered,  as 
calmly  as  he  could.  His  heart  was  beating  violently. 
He  thought  he  had  never  seen  her  looking  more  beauti 
ful.  She  was  now  close  enough  for  him  to  behold  her 
distinctly.  He  could  even  observe  the  animation  on 
her  face  and  the  light  that  glowed  in  her  eyes. 

Although  the  bow  of  the  boat  was  now  almost  at  the 
point  of  the  pier,  Esther  had  not  yet  discovered  her 
father.  She  was  standing  between  the  twins,  and 
Johnny  and  Mr.  Vivian  were  visible  just  behind  them. 
It  was  Johnny  who  first  saw  Dircks  and  told  Esther 
where  the  old  man  was  standing. 

When  she  looked  into  her  father's  eyes  she  leaned 
forward  and  waved  her  handkerchief  and  blew  him  a 
kiss.  Then  catching  sight  of  Sartain  standing  by  the 
side  of  Dircks,  she  drew  back  startled,  while  a  blush 
swiftly  mantled  her  cheeks  and  fled  as  swiftly. 

Almost  immediately  the  boat  began  to  slide  into  her 
position  alongside  the  pier,  and  the  people  on  the 
pier-head  rushed  back  to  the  opening  where  the  gang 
plank  was  ready  hoisted. 

Esther  was  one  of  the  first  of  the  passengers  to  come 
ashore.  She  flew  down  the  bridge  and  rushed  into  her 
father's  arms,  wholly  regardless  of  those  present. 

"  There,  there,  my  little  girl,"  said  Dircks,  soothing 
her,  "you're  back  now,  and  it's  all  right.  I  hope  you 
had  a  good  time." 

"Yes,  indeed,  father,"  she  answered.  "I  enjoyed 
every  minute  of  it — and  I  kept  wishing  and  wishing 
that  you  were  with  me.  I  saw  ever  so  many  things 
that  would  have  interested  you — pictures,  you  know, 
and  operas." 

"Here's  Mr.  Sartain  come  down  to  see  you,  too," 


A   CONFIDENT  TO-MORROW  225 

the  old  man  told  her  as  she  released  herself  from  his 
arms. 

The  young  man  had  been  standing  a  little  behind 
her  father,  not  wishing  to  intrude.  Now  he  stepped 
forward,  his  heart  again  beating  high  with  joy  and 
hope. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Sartain,"  she  said,  very  calmly,  holding  out 
her  hand,  "  it  was  very  good  of  you  to  come  down  with 
father." 

He  wanted  to  tell  her  that  he  had  come  before  her 
father,  that  he  had  come  alone,  that  he  had  come  for 
her  only  ;  but  he  was  disconcerted  by  her  placidity. 
He  had  been  looking  forward  ardently  to  a  meeting 
with  the  woman  he  loved  after  half  a  year's  absence. 
He  was  taken  aback  to  find  her  greeting  him  in  a 
friendly  fashion  only. 

It  took  him  a  minute  to  adjust  himself  to  the  new 
conditions,  so  different  were  they  from  those  he  had 
day-dreamed  about.  He  loved  her,  and  he  knew  it ; 
but  she  did  not  know  it.  How  should  she  ?  And  she 
did  not  love  him.  Why  should  she  ?  He  recognized 
that  he  had  been  going  too  fast,  and  that  he  had  no 
right  to  expect  her  to  meet  him  on  any  other  than  the 
footing  of  friendship  on  which  they  had  parted.  He 
had  no  claim  to  be  received  as  anything  but  an  ac 
quaintance — he  was  not  even  an  intimate — and  she  had 
smiled  on  him  and  shaken  hands  with  him  just  as  she 
would  with  any  other  man  with  whom  she  was  familiar, 
lie  accepted  the  situation,  but  he  shrank  away,  and  all 
his  shyness  returned  as  the  Vivians  came  pouring  down 
the  gang-plank. 

The  twins  were  caught  up  by  a  band  of  young  men 
and  maidens,  who  swept  them  off  to  one  side  of  the 

15 


226  A    CONFIDENT   TO-MOKKOW 

shed.  Mr.  Vivian  and  Johnny  came  towards  Dircks. 
Sartain  noticed  that  Mr.  Vivian  was  dressed  with  scru 
pulous  precision  in  spick-and-span  clothes,  and  that 
Johnny,  a  little  plumper  than  before,  was  clad  in  a  very 
tight-fitting,  tailor-made  suit. 

Mr.  Vivian  shook  hands  with  Dircks.  "You  see 
we  have  taken  good  care  of  her,"  he  said.  "We  are 
bringing  her  back  with  the  roses  in  her  cheeks 
again." 

Esther  told  her  father  how  good  Mr.  Vivian  had 
been  to  her,  and  so  had  Johnny,  and  Dora,  and  Theo, 
too — nobody  could  have  been  nicer. 

Sartain  scrutinized  every  expression  on  Vivian's  face 
and  Esther's,  and  weighed  every  intonation,  to  see  if 
there  had  been  any  change  in  their  relations  since 
they  had  left  Xew  York.  So  intent  was  he  on  those 
observations  that  he  failed  to  see  the  neatly  gloved 
hand  which  Johnny  extended  to  him. 

"I'm  back,  too,"  she  said,  covering  him  with  confu 
sion.  Then  Vivian  also  shook  hands  with  him  ;  and 
the  five  of  them  stood  there  for  a  minute  chatting  near 
the  foot  of  the  gang-plank. 

Already  was  the  derrick  lifting  the  trunks  out  of  the 
hold  and  lowering  them  on  deck  in  a  sling  that  held  a 
dozen  at  a  time,  to  be  slid  down  an  inclined  plane  to 
the  porters  waiting  for  them.  Five  minutes  after  the 
ship  was  made  fast,  the  trucks  were  rolling  and  rum 
bling  in  every  direction,  distributing  the  baggage  over 
the  pier.  The  rattle  and  the  roar  increased  until  con 
versation  became  difficult,  without  raising  the  voice  to 
shrillness. 

"  I  say,  now,"  said  Johnny  suddenly,  to  her  father, 
"why  shouldn't  Esther  go?  She  needn't  wait  here 


A   CONFIDENT  TO-MORROW  227 

for  her  trunks  to  be  examined,,  need  she  ?  I'll  see 
them  through  for  her." 

"I  hope  you  got  lots  of  pretty  things/'  declared 
Dircks  to  his  daughter. 

"  I  have,  indeed/'  she  cried,  "though  I  didn't  spend 
half  as  much  as  you  wrote." 

"  But,  nevertheless,  Miss  Esther  has  nothing  dutia 
ble,"  said  Vivian,  solemnly. 

"  Oh  no,"  Esther  answered. 

"Of  course  not  !"  Johnny  corroborated.  "What  a 
foolish  suggestion  !  Who  ever  heard  of  a  girl's  bring 
ing  home  anything  that  was  dutiable  ?  Give  me  your 
keys,  Esther,  and  I'll  smile  on  the  custom-house  man 
for  you,  and  he  will  be  as  easy  with  us  as  he  dares." 

Esther  demurred  a  little,  but  she  suffered  herself  to 
be  persuaded,  and  her  father  took  her  away  gladly. 

Sartain  wanted  to  go  up-town  with  her,  but  he  felt 
he  had  no  right  to  intrude  on  her  first  talk  with  her 
father  after  so  long  an  absence.  So  he  walked  with 
them  to  the  cross-town  car,  and  asked  if  he  might  not 
call  soon  to  hear  her  tell  about  the  good  times  she  had 
had  on  the  other  side. 

"I  shall  be  very  glad  to  see  you,"  she  said,  simply. 
"  Why  not  come  in  some  Sunday  afternoon — next  Sun 
day,  if  you  have  no  other  engagement  ?" 

Sartain  had  no  other  engagement,  and  he  promised 
to  present  himself  on  the  appointed  day.  Then  he 
helped  her  into  the  car  and  gave  up  her  little  hand-bag, 
which  he  had  insisted  on  carrying,  and  she  thanked 
him  pleasantly. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

ON  Sunday  afternoon  Sartain  went  to  Stuyvesant 
Square,  hoping  to  find  Esther  alone.  In  this  expecta 
tion  he  was  disappointed,  for  Dircks  was  sitting  before 
the  fire,  smoking  his  corn-cob  pipe.  The  old  man  had 
caught  cold  the  morning  he  waited  on  the  dock,  and 
Esther  had  forbidden  him  to  leave  the  house. 

Sartain  paid  a  long  visit,  overjoyed  to  be  again  in 
the  same  room  with  Esther.  His  eye  gladdened  as  he 
watched  her  wait  on  her  father,  mixing  his  medicine 
and  putting  the  tobacco  ready  to  his  hand. 

She  talked  about  her  summer,  telling  her  visitor 
what  she  had  most  enjoyed,  describing  the  pleasant 
excursions  they  had  made,  repeating  the  memorable 
sayings  of  the  notabilities  they  had  met.  Sartain  kept 
asking  questions  and  leading  her  on  for  the  sheer  de 
light  he  took  in  listening  to  the  modulations  of  her 
voice,  and  in  watching  the  play  of  expression  as  she 
set  forth  her  experiences.  Once  he  was  moved  to  cap 
her  account  of  a  day's  trip  from  Interlaken  over  the 
Wengernalp  by  the  story  of  his  own  week  on  foot  in 
the  White  Mountains  when  he  was  in  college. 

A  little  later  Dircks  began  to  ask  Sartain  for  the 
latest  news  in  regard  to  the  election,  then  only  ten  days 
distant. 

Manhattan  was  one  of  the  organs  of  the  citizens 


A   CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW  229 

who  wished  to  elect  a  Mayor  wholly  without  regard  to 
his  politics  and  solely  with  reference  to  his  ability  to 
administer  the  affairs  of  Xew  York.  The  contest  was 
likely  to  be  exceedingly  close,  and  the  air  was  full  of 
rumors  of  one  kind  or  another.  Sartain  Avas  broad 
enough  to  go  behind  this  mere  gossip  and  to  pin  his 
faith  on  the  common-sense  of  the  people.  He  believed 
that  the  cause  he  advocated  was  right,  and  that  it  was 
therefore  certain  to  prevail  in  the  long  run,  even  if, 
by  chance,  it  were  defeated  in  the  coming  election. 
Dircks  was  less  confident  and  more  defiant.  When  the 
old  man's  feelings  were  wrought  up,  his  taciturnity 
vanished  and  he  became  unduly  loquacious.  Sartain 
found  himself  immeshed  in  a  political  discussion  in 
which  he  suspected  Esther  to  be  but  doubtfully  in 
terested.  He  tried  to  lead  her  father  away  from  it,  but 
without  success. 

At  last  the  young  man  took  his  leave.  He  wanted 
to  tell  Esther  what  it  meant  to  him  to  have  her  back 
again  where  he  could  feast  his  eyes  with  the  sight  of 
her.  But  he  could  find  no  form  of  words  that  did  not 
sound  fulsome  and  absurd.  His  intention  died  away 
with  a  broken  word  or  two,  swallowed  almost  before  it 
was  spoken. 

On  the  stoop  of  the  house  he  met  Adams  just  about 
to  ring  the  bell. 

Sartain  knew  that  the  artist  had  been  called  to  Bos 
ton  a  week  before  by  the  serious  illness  of  his  mother, 
and  he  supposed  that  this  was  the  reason  his  rival  had 
not  been  at  the  dock  to  receive  Esther  on  her  return. 

"Hello  !"  cried  the  painter;  "you're  just  the  man  I 
wanted  to  see — at  least,  seeing  you  now  will  save  my 
having  to  write  a  letter,  and  that's  money  in  my  pocket 


230  A   CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW 

— two  cents,  at  least.  My  mother's  all  right  again,  and  I 
got  away  from  Boston  yesterday  morning  by  the  bright 
light.  In  the  afternoon  I  went  to  the  Vivians',  and 
we've  got  a  grand  scheme ;  and  that's  what  I  was  going 
to  write  you  about.  Can  you  chafe  ?" 

"  Chafe  ?"  repeated  Sartain,  in  perplexity. 

"  Chafe — that's  what  I  said,"  the  artist  answered. 
"  It's  a  new  pocket-verb  of  my  own.  To  chafe,  to  cook 
on  a  chafing-dish.  It's  bound  to  be  accepted,  that 
word  is,  because  it  fills  a  felt  want." 

"No,"  the  other  responded  ;  "I  can't  chafe — that  is 
to  say,  I've  never  tried." 

"  Then  you  can  try  on  Election  night,"  said  Adams  ; 
"that's  the  scheme.  We  shall  all  want  to  sit  up  and 
see  the  excitement,  and  find  out  how  the  thing  goes, 
and  be  in  at  the  death.  So  I'm  giving  a  chafing-dish 
party  at  my  studio,  to  celebrate  the  safe  return  of  the 
Vivians  and  Miss  Esther  here.  I'm  going  in  now  to 
ask  her  and  her  iconoclastic  sire." 

When  he  heard  that  Esther  was  to  be  invited,  Sar 
tain  accepted  promptly. 

As  it  chanced,  he  did  not  see  her  again  until  they 
met  at  the  studio  on  Election  night.  He  called  in 
Stuyvesant  Square  the  next  Sunday  afternoon  only  to 
be  told  that  Esther  had  gone  to  Tuxedo  from  Friday 
to  Monday  with  the  Vivians.  It  was  her  father  who 
gave  him  this  information,  and  who  detained  him  for 
an  hour,  discussing  the  political  situation. 

On  Election  day,  after  Sartain  voted,  he  went  forth 
on  a  tour  of  inspection.  His  own  district  was  in  a 
well-to-do  neighborhood,  and  he  wanted  to  see  whether 
an  election  could  pass  off  as  quietly  in  the  worst  parts 
of  New  York  as  here.  He  went  down  to  Tompkins 


A   CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW  231 

Square,  and  then  on  to  Cherry  Hill ;  and  everywhere 
there  was  the  same  orderliness.  The  silence  of  the 
city  on  that  day,  when  its  inhabitants  were  deciding 
who  should  manage  its  affairs  and  control  its  immense 
revenues,  the  closed  stores,  the  cessation  of  business  in 
all  the  chief  thoroughfares,  the  general  air  of  expect 
ancy — all  these  things  impressed  Sartain.  It  was  not 
until  after  the  polls  had  closed  that  he  saw  the  first 
drunken  man.  Even  at  nightfall,  when  the  boys  were 
making  all  the  side  streets  brilliant  with  bonfires,  it 
was  not  often  that  any  one  was  to  be  seen  under  the 
influence  of  liquor.  That  a  day  so  exciting  as  this 
should  draw  to  a  close  without  violence  or  disorder, 
this  seemed  to  him  a  proof  of  the  marvellous  manner' 
in  which  America  had  imposed  its  political  ideals  upon 
a  population  the  half  of  which  had  been  born  under 
wholly  different  political  conditions. 

Standing  under  the  gas-jet,  he  picked  up  Dust  and 
Ashes,  and  reread  hastily  the  two  or  three  chapters 
which  described  the  turmoil  of  a  political  campaign. 
He  relished  his  own  writing ;  it  seemed  to  him  pretty 
good,  after  all ;  there  were  blemishes  in  it,  no  doubt, 
but  the  excitement  of  an  election  was  caught  not  in 
adequately  ;  the  picture  he  had  presented  was  very  like 
the  reality. 

In  his  walk  from  Irving  Place  up  to  the  tall  building 
near  Thirty-fourth  Street  where  Adams  had  his  studio, 
Sartain  had  to  thread  his  way  through  the  throngs  that 
packed  the  sidewalks  of  Madison  Square,  and  that 
surged  out  here  and  there  into  the  broad  streets,  mak 
ing  it  difficult  for  the  street-cars  to  force  themselves 
through  the  compacting  crowd.  White  screens  gleamed 
aloft,  on  which  magic-lanterns  projected  the  latest  re- 


232  A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORIiOAV 

turns  from  all  parts  of  the  city.  As  the  triumph  of 
the  reform  party  became  more  probable,  the  cheering 
became  more  frequent.  Although  the  figures  showed 
that  the  inhabitants  of  the  city  had  divided  almost 
equally,  the  utmost  good -nature  prevailed.  Men  on 
the  winning  side  were  chaffing  men  on  the  losing  side ; 
but  there  was  no  bitterness  in  it,  the  defeated  accept 
ing  the  result  and  declaring  that  their  turn  would 
come  next,  as  the  city  would  be  sick  of  reform  inside 
of  six  months.  From  the  lovely  tower  of  the  Madison 
Square  Garden,  faint  against  the  deep  blue  sky,  an 
electric  search-light  flashed  signals  to  be  interpreted 
many  miles  away. 

After  Sartain  had  emerged  from  the  swaying  mob 
that  was  shrieking  itself  hoarse  with  every  set  of  re 
turns  thrown  upon  the  screens,  he  went  on  his  way  up 
town.  Half-way  between  Madison  Square  and  Thirty- 
fourth  Street  he  had  to  stand  aside  while  a  marching 
club  went  by,  a  score  or  two  of  young  fellows,  walking 
one  behind  the  other,  each  with  his  hands  on  the 
shoulders  of  the  man  before  him,  and  all  keeping  step 
to  the  staccato  cry,  "We — we — we  -  got  'm — now!" 
monotonously  reiterated,  until  the  leader  gave  a  sud 
den  signal,  and  then  they  all  responded  with  a  sky 
rocket  cheer,  which  died  down  with  individual  and 
fantastic  yells. 

Adams's  studio  was  on  the  top-floor  of  a  large  build 
ing  on  a  corner  of  Broadway.  The  elevator-boy  told 
Sartain  at  which  door  to  knock,  and  when  he  came 
opposite  to  it  he  heard  the  boisterous  laughter  of  the 
twins.  His  shyness  returned  instantly.  Of  late  he 
had  hoped  that  he  was  overcoming  it,  and  even  out 
growing  it,  but  in  the  presence  of  Mr.  Vivian's  robust 


A   CONFIDENT   TO-MORRONV  233 

daughters  it  always  recurred.  Now  it  was  only  the 
fact  that  he  had  accepted  the  invitation,  combined 
with  the  expectation  that  he  would  meet  Esther,  which 
enabled  him  to  conquer  his  instinctive  desire  to  run 
away. 

lie  had  to  knock  three  times  before  any  one  heard 
him,  and  then  it  was  either  Dora  or  Theo  who  cried 
"  Come  in  !  Oh,  come  in  I" 

When  he  had  entered  he  found  the  whole  party 
gathered  around  a  table  in  the  centre  of  the  room. 
At  one  end  of  this  table  sat  Mr.  Vivian,  as  carefully 
dressed  as  ever  and  as  scrupulously  combed,  but  disfig 
ured  now  by  a  huge  check  apron.  He  had  apples,  ba 
nanas,  celery,  and  lettuce  in  plates  before  him.  His 
three  daughters,  Esther,  and  Adams  were  grouped 
around  him,  watching  his  motions,  commenting  on 
them,  and  tendering  advice. 

Adams  looked  up  as  Sartain  entered.  "  Hsssh  !"  he 
cried,  "  don't  say  a  word.  The  inventor  of  the  famous 
'  Vera  Cruz  Salad '  is  now  engaged  in  compounding  it. 
Beware  how  you  distract  his  attention  !" 

"  Never  mind  their  foolishness,  Sartain,"  said  Viv 
ian.  "  What  is  the  latest  news  ?" 

"Come,  come,"  interrupted  the  artist,  "business 
before  pleasure  !  I  adjure  Sartain  not  to  talk  politics 
until  you  have  finished  that  salad.  Politics  is  all  very 
fine,  but  a  salad  is  a  serious  thing  !" 

Esther  was  at  one  end  of  the  table  facing  Vivian, 
and  Sartain  came  forward  and  stood  beside  her.  She 
greeted  him  with  her  radiant  smile,  and  he  was  happy 
at  once  and  willing  to  stand  there  silently  forever.  He 
gazed  around  at  the  studio,  which  he  had  never  before 
seen  lighted  up  at  night.  It  was  a  large  room,  with 


234  A   CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW 

one  immense  window  on  the  north  side.  A  screen 
shut  off  one  corner,  and  from  where  Sartain  stood  he 
could  see  that  all  sorts  of  odds  and  ends  had  been 
heaped  up  there  out  of  the  way.  An  easel  was  drawn 
against  the  wall  near  the  window,  and  on  this  was  a 
vigorously  brushed  portrait  of  Vivian  ;  and  as  Sartain 
examined  this  he  envied  the  art  of  the  painter  which 
could  thus  set  a  human  being  before  the  spectator  with 
a  few  strokes,  bold  and  simple.  On  the  wall  opposite 
to  Sartain  was  the  painting  of  ' '  Cinderella  and  the 
Haughty  Sisters,"  which  had  come  back  from  the  ex 
hibition  unsold.  Facing  this  picture  was  an  upright 
piano  with  a  lighted  lamp  on  it. 

Vivian  was  proceeding  steadily  with  the  preparation 
of  his  salad.  He  chopped  the  celery  into  little  bits ; 
he  peeled  two  or  three  apples  and  cut  them  into  little 
cubes ;  and  he  also  cut  an  equal  number  of  little  cubes 
of  banana.  He  decked  a  broad  bowl  with  the  leaves  of 
the  lettuce,  he  mixed  the  celery,  the  apple,  and  the  ba 
nana  together,  in  the  proportion  of  one-half  celery  to 
one -quarter  each  of  apple  and  banana,  and,  having 
mingled  them  carefully,  he  heaped  them  up  in  the 
bowl,  in  the  centre  of  the  lettuce.  Then  he  turned  to 
the  preparation  of  the  dressing,  a  mayonnaise,  in  which 
the  yolks  of  hard-boiled  eggs,  olive-oil,  white-wine  vine 
gar,  salt,  mustard,  and  three  kinds  of  pepper  were  all 
artfully  proportioned  and  adroitly  commingled.  At 
last  he  finished  beating  up  the  thick,  golden  liquid, 
and  he  poured  it  cautiously  over  the  ingredients  ar 
ranged  in  the  broad  bowl. 

"  There  !"  said  the  operator  ;  ' '  there  is  a  salad,  if 
you  like  !  What  do  you  say  to  that  ?" 

"I'm  not  saying  a  word/'  Adams  responded.     "I 


A    CONFIDENT    TO-MORROW  235 

never  look  a  friend's  hobby  in  the  month.  But  it  is 
my  turn  now,  and  I  will  show  you." 

He  put  the  salad-bowl  on  the  top  of  the  piano,  by 
the  side  of  the  lamp,  and  cleared  away  the  plates 
Vivian  had  used.  He  went  behind  the  screen,  and  re 
turned  with  his  chafing-dish  and  the  ingredients  for 
an  oyster-stew. 

"  Give  me  that  apron,"  he  said.  "  Eeally,  store- 
clothes  and  a  boiled  shirt  are  no  costume  to  chafe  in. 
I  ought  to  have  worn  my  overalls." 

Johnny  helped  her  father  to  take  off  the  apron,  and 
then  the  twins  tied  it  on  Adams. 

"Uni — um,"  said  Theo,  "don't  those  oysters  look 
good  ?" 

"They  are  so  plump,"  added  Dora,  "that  it  would 
be  rank  cannibalism  for  us  to  eat  them." 

"And  I'm  just  as  sure  as  sure  that  he's  going  to 
put  in  butter  and  crackers  and  all  sorts  of  fattening 
things,"  Theo  continued. 

"I  don't  know  how  it  is,"  Dora  went  on.  "I  had 
a  good  dinner,  and  it  isn't  late — and  yet  the  sight  of 
a  chafing-dish  makes  me  hungry  at  once  !" 

"  The  sight  of  Madams's  cooking  will  take  it  away 
again,"  suggested  Johnny. 

"  That  isn't  fair,"  cried  Adams,  as  he  began  to  but 
ter  his  pan;  "your  little  sisters  are  healthy,  hearty 
girls,  and — " 

" Healthy  !"  interrupted  Theo.  "Oh,  you  hateful 
thing  !" 

"  Hearty  !"  Dora  ejaculated  "You've  no  right  to 
insult  us  by  saying  that." 

"Just  because  we  are  not  as  thin  as  Esther,  you  treat 
us  as  if — as  if  we  were  pin-cushions,"  Theo  declared. 


236  A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW 

"And  Esther  has  an  excellent  appetite — haven't 
yon?"  Dora  asserted.  "You  should  have  seen  her 
eat  when  she  was  in  Paris." 

"  Oh,  Dora,"  protested  Esther,  "  you  make  me  feel 
as  if  I  had  been  a  boa-constrictor." 

"Yes,"  Theo  declared,  gravely;  "if  I  could  have 
things  to  eat  every  day  like  those  we  had  in  Paris,  I 
don't  think  I  should  want  to  die." 

"  Bal  !"  Adams  interjected,  having  lighted  the  lamp 
under  the  chafing-dish.  "  You  don't  want  to  die  now, 
do  you  ?" 

"  Don't  we  ?"  Dora  responded,  promptly. 

"  Why  not  ?"  asked  Theo.  "  Do  you  know  what  we 
did  one  night  last  week  ?  I  had  been  awake  a  long 
while,  and  I  felt  sure  Dora  was  awake  too.  So  I  asked 
her  what  she  was  doing,  and  she  had  a  grand  scheme — 

"  I  was  thinking  about  all  the  people  who  would 
send  flowers  if  we  were  to  die,"  Dora  broke  in;  "and 
I  told  Theo,  and  she  came  in  my  bed,  and  we  found 
a  pencil  and  a  piece  of  paper.  We  lighted  the  gas, 
and—" 

"And  we  made  out  a  list  of  everybody  who  would 
send  flowers,"  Theo  interrupted,  "  and  what  they 
would  send.  We  put  you  down  for  a  wreath,  Madams." 

"Quite  right,"  the  artist  responded,  with  unwink 
ing  gravity;  "I  always  send  a  wreath  when  I  have 
been  invited  to  dinner." 

"  Do  you  not  think  you  have  given  us  enough  of  the 
death's  head  at  the  feast  ?"  asked  Vivian.  "This  is 
not  an  Egyptian  banquet." 

Sartain  had  said  nothing.  He  had  listened  in  silent 
astonishment.  The  twins  were  inexplicable  to  him 
always.  He  could  not  understand  their  extravagant 


A   CONFIDENT  TO-MOBEOW  237 

gayety,  their  morbid  fancies,  their  liking  for  person 
alities,,  their  familiarity,  which  seemed  to  him  almost 
underbred. 

"Xo,"  said  Adams,  "this  is  not  an  Egyptian  ban 
quet  ;  but  it  will  be  a  Barmecide  feast  if  this  lamp 
doesn't  burn  better.  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  girls,  you 
mustn't  ask  me  to  come  and  chafe  your  wedding-break 
fast  for  you." 

"It  is  Cinderella  who  gets  married,"  Dora  retorted, 
"not  the  Haughty  Sisters." 

"It  is  Cinderella  who  marries  Prince  Charming," 
added  Theo,  and  then  they  both  laughed. 

Esther  tried  to  turn  their  attention.  "  Cinderella 
marries  the  prince,  I'll  admit,"  she  said,  "  but  don't 
forget  that  she  found  husbands  for  her  sisters — dukes, 
I  think  they  were,  or  counts,  or  something." 

"'If  I  were  you,  I  shouldn't  want  a  husband  some 
body  else  had  found,"  Johnny  suggested  ;  "  perhaps 
the  wife  who  had  lost  him  might  offer  a  reward  and 
get  him  back." 

"All  the  dukes  and  counts  I  hear  about  nowadays 
are  as  poor  as  crows,  and  I  don't  want  to  get  a  hus 
band  out  of  the  almshouse,"  said  Theo. 

"  Xeither  do  I,"  Dora  continued,  the  one  playing 
into  the  other's  hands,  as  was  their  custom.  "  I  don't 
mean  to  marry  for  money — I  wouldn't  do  that  !  But 
I  believe  it's  just  as  easy  to  fall  in  love  with  a  rich 
man  as  a  poor  man.  Don't  you,  Esther  ?" 

The  girl  was  taken  by  surprise  at  being  summoned 
into  the  conversation,  thus  unexpectedly.  "  I  don't 
believe  in  marrying  for  money,  of  course/'  she  said, 
at  hist,  "although  I  suppose  it  is  a  good  thing  that 
the  man  you  love  should  have  something  of  his  own. 


238  A    CONFIDENT   TO-MOKROW 

But  if  you  love  him,  what  does  it  matter  whether  he  is 
rich  or  poor  ?  It's  the  man  you  are  going  to  live  with, 
for  better  or  for  worse ;  it  isn't  the  money.  If  you 
love  him,  and  he  loves  you,  he  would  do  anything  for 
you  and  you  for  him.  I  don't  intend  to  marry  any 
man  until  I'm  ready  to  black  his  boots  !" 

"  That's  all  very  well,"  Johnny  answered,  "  but  you 
wouldn't  have  to  do  that  if  he  were  rich  enough  to 
wear  patent-leathers  I" 

"  I  like  to  hear  you  girls  talking  about  marriage  and 
giving  in  marriage,"  Adams  asserted,  "just  as  if  there 
were  not  more  serious  things  in  the  world  than  falling 
in  love.  We  men  don't  keep  on  talking  about  getting 
married.  Do  we,  Sartain  ?" 

Thus  suddenly  addressed,  Sartain  could  only  stam 
mer,  "I — I — I  don't  know." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  about  you,  either,  if  it  comes 
to  that,"  Adams  answered,  as  he  began  to  drop  the 
oysters  into  the  chafing-dish.  "Maybe  some  invisi 
ble  spinster  in  New  England  has  your  affections  on 
cold  storage,  for  all  I  know.  But  here  in  New 
York  I've  never  seen  you  go  a-girling.  Of  course, 
you  may  have  half  a  dozen  co-flirts  I've  never  sus 
pected." 

Sartain  tugged  at  the  point  of  his  beard  and  wished 
that  he  was  quick-witted.  He  would  have  liked  to 
turn  the  tables  on  Adams  sharply,  and  to  get  the 
laugh  on  him  by  some  unexpected  repartee.  To  do 
this  in  the  presence  of  Esther  would  be  doubly  grati 
fying.  But  he  could  find  nothing  at  all  worthy  of  the 
occasion.  He  thought  of  retorting  that  Adams  judged 
others  by  himself,  but  this  seemed  to  him  unspeakably 
cheap.  And  in  the  end  all  he  said  was,  "I  shall  not 


A   CONFIDENT  TO-MOKKOW  239 

condescend  to  make  any  defence  against  such  a  charge 
from  such  a  source." 

The  sound  of  an  approaching  brass -band  became 
audible  above  the  chatter  of  conversation  and  the 
rattle  in  the  streets  below.  Adams  was  left  alone  at 
the  table  while  the  rest  of  the  party  flocked  over  to 
the  broad  window. 

A  campaign  club  was  marching  down  Broadway  from 
its  own  rooms  to  the  headquarters  of  the  party  organi 
zation  in  Twenty-third  Street.  There  were  a  hundred 
men  walking  four  abreast,  with  flags,  transparencies, 
and  popping  Roman  candles.  They  kept  cheering  and 
shrieking,  and  as  they  went  down  the  street  the  crowds 
on  the  sidewalks  joined  in  the  cheers  with  hearty  good- 
humor. 

"  What  was  the  last  report  as  you  came  by  ?"  Vivian 
inquired  of  Sartain. 

"The  returns  show  that  we  have  carried  the  city 
by  anywhere  from  ten  to  forty  thousand/'  the  young 
man  answered. 

"  Father  will  be  so  glad  of  that,"  Esther  declared. 
"  He's  coming  for"  me.  But  he  was  too  restless  to  stay, 
and  he  said  he'd  go  down  to  Madison  Square  and  get 
the  latest  news." 

As  the  procession  passed  on  out  of  sight  and  out  of 
hearing  the  twins  went  back  to  the  table.  Mr.  Vivian 
had  remained  at  the  window  with  his  eldest  daughter 
and  Esther.  So  had  Sartain,  who  was  trying  to  find 
some  means  of  separating  the  girl  he  loved  from  the 
other  two,  and  of  having  her  all  to  himself  for  a  little 
chat.  But  before  he  had  devised  a  scheme  to  accom 
plish  this,  Vivian  had  expressed  to  Esther  his  belief 
that  her  father  would  make  a  most  effective  portrait, 


240  A  CONFIDENT:  TO-MORBOW 

and  in  a  moment  more  he  had  led  her  away  to  exam 
ine  his  own  picture  on  the  easel,  and  thence  across  the 
room  to  the  Cinderella. 

Johnny  and  Sartain  were  left  sitting  side  by  side  on 
the  broad  lounge  before  the  window.  The  girl  gave 
him  a  quizzical  look. 

"  You  weren't  quick  enough/"  she  said.  "  Papa  cut 
in  before  you." 

Sartain  marvelled  that  she  had  read  his  thought 
thus  plainly,  and  he  wondered  whether  she  had  dis 
covered  with  equal  perspicuity  her  father's  affection 
for  Esther. 

"  Yes/'  he  began,  "I  did  want  to  have  a  chat  with 
her.  You  see,  it's  six  months  now  and  more  since  I've 
hardly  had  a  chance  to  talk  to  her — all  to  myself." 

"  And  do  you  want  to  talk  to  her  all  to  yourself  just 
as  much  as  you  did  six  months  ago  ?"  Johnny  asked, 
looking  him  full  in  the  face. 

" More,"  he  answered,  simply — "much  more.  You 
see,  I  love  her  now  more  than  I  did  then — although 
then  I  didn't  think  I  could  do  that." 

"  Oh  !"  said  Johnny,  sharply.  "You  love  her  more 
now  than  ever — and  you  come  and  tell  me  that  ?" 

"I  must  tell  somebody  !"  he  returned. 

Johnny  sat  silent  for  a  moment,  her  foot  impatient 
ly  tapping  the  floor. 

"  I  can't  imagine  what  all  you  men  see  in  Esther 
Dircks  that's  so  very  attractive,"  she  said,  at  last. 
"Of  course,  she's  a  nice  girl,  and  a  sweet,  good  girl, 
arid  all  that — and  I  love  her  dearly  myself.  But  you 
men,  you  seem  to  adore  her — you  and  Madams  and  my 
fa—" 

Then  she  broke  off  suddenly,  and  Sartain  knew  that 


A    CONFIDENT    TO-MORROW  241 

she  had  detected  the  secret  that  her  father  had  not 
discovered  even  yet. 

"  It's  about  time  for  Madams  to  propose  to  her 
again,"  continued  Johnny.  "  What  is  there  about 
Esther  that's  so  strangely  fascinating,  I'd  like  to 
know." 

"How  can  I  tell  you?"  Sartain  answered.  "It's 
herself  that  is  her  chief  charm,  I  suppose — her  own 
exquisite  personality.  And  then  she  looks  so  fragile, 
so  ethereal — " 

•'  She  looks  frail  enough — just  as  if  she  hadn't  a 
bone  in  her  body,"  Johnny  interrupted;  "in  fact,  I 
used  to  call  her  Miss  Cartilage — but  for  all  that  she 
isn't  to  be  blown  away  by  a  breeze.  She  has  a  healthy 
appetite,  Esther  has,  and  she  likes  clothes,  just  as 
other  girls  do,  and  she  takes  mighty  good  care  of  that 
delicate  complexion  of  hers,  and  she's  miserable  if  she 
gets  sunburnt  ever  so  little.  She  isn't  so  very  differ 
ent  from  the  rest  of  us,  I  assure  you.  She  knows  that 
her  right  profile  is  better  than  the  left ;  and  you  just 
see  her  now  as  she's  talking  to  papa — she  always  turns 
the  best  side  to  a  man." 

Sartain  looked  at  her  in  dumfounded  astonishment. 
He  could  not  understand  why  Johnny  should  indulge 
in  this  outbreak.  He  could  not  guess  why  she  should 
thus  attack  the  girl  she  had  just  pretended  to  love. 
He  was  so  taken  by  surprise  that  he  said  nothing;  and 
Johnny  was  able  to  regain  her  equanimity. 

"  I  suppose  you  wonder  why  I'm  telling  you  all  these 
things  ?"  she  asked,  with  a  softening  of  her  voice. 
Then  she  laughed  lightly.  He  was  looking  at  Esther 
as  she  stood  by  the  side  of  Vivian  at  the  other  end  of 
the  room.  Her  head  was  turned  from  side  to  side, 

16 


242  A   CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW 

gracefully,  as  she  discussed  the  picture ;  then  a  wisp 
of  her  light-gold  hair  came  down  over  her  eyes,  and 
she  raised  her  hand  to  thrust  it  into  its  place — a  gest 
ure  that  always  moved  Sartain  like  a  beautiful  passage 
of  music. 

"Yes,"  he  responded,  "I  confess  I  do  not  perceive 
your  motives." 

"  My  motives  ?"  she  repeated,  rather  scornfully. 
"  Oh,  well,  my  motives  will  have  to  take  care  of  them 
selves — if  I  have  any.  What  I  wanted  to  do  was  to 
bring  you  down  from  the  skies  and  make  you  put  your 
feet  on  the  solid  earth.  It's  here  you've  got  to  live, 
for  a  little  while,  anyway,  and  not  in  heaven ;  and 
that's  why  it's  a  good  thing  Esther's  not  an  angel,  but 
just  a  woman — a  woman  like  the  rest  of  us,  with  her 
fine  points  of  character,  and  her  defects,  too." 

"I  see  what  you  mean,"  Sartain  returned,  mollified 
by  her  change  of  tone.  ' '  You  think  that  I  idealize  her 
too  much." 

"If  I  were  you,  I  wouldn't  idealize  her  at  all,"  she 
retorted.  "She's  a  human  being,  you  see — just  as  I 
am.  She  had  a  father  and  a  mother — just  as  you  had. 
She's  a  woman,  with  all  the  failings  of  a  Avoman — even 
if  she  has  more  than  her  share  of  a  woman's  fascina 
tion." 

"  She  is  a  woman  of  a  thousand,"  Sartain  declared.   > 

"  Oh,  I'll  say  she's  a  woman  of  a  million,  if  you  like," 
returned  Johnny.  "  All  the  same,  she  is  a  woman,  and 
not  a  fairy  or  a  nymph  or  an  angel.  And  if  yon  idealize 
her  too  much,  it  isn't  good  for  either  of  you,  because 
you  are  certain  to  find  her  out  sooner  or  later.  It  isn't 
good  for  her  especially — that  is,  if  you  are  ever  to 
marry  her." 


A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW  248 

"If  I  ever  marry  her !"  the  young  man  echoed. 
"  How  can  I  really  hope  that  she  will  ever  marry 
me  ?" 

"There  you  go  idealizing  her  again/'' was  the  in 
stant  response.  "  Other  girls  get  married  now  and 
then — why  not  Esther  Dircks  ?" 

"  But  why  should  she  ever  care  for  me  ?"  he  asked, 
hoping  for  encouragement. 

"  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure,"  Johnny  answered,  calmly. 

"Who  am  I,  that  she  should  ever  take  a  fancy  to 
me?"  pursued  Sartain.  "I'm  not  rich,  I'm  not  hand 
some,  I'm  not  famous.  What  have  I  got  to  offer  her  ?" 

"Yourself,"  was  the  swift  reply.  "That's  all  that 
any  man  can  offer,  and  it's  enough  for  any  girl." 

"Oh,  Miss  Johnny  !"  ejaculated  Sartain. 

"I  mean  what  I  say,"  the  young  woman  responded. 
"  I'm  no  hypocrite.  I  don't  know  whether  it's  hypoc 
risy  that  makes  men  pretend  they  are  not  as  good  as 
girls  are,  or  whether  it's  misplaced  modesty,  or  what 
it  is  ;  but  it's  nonsense,  whatever  it  is — just  nonsense  ! 
I've  no  patience  with  such  shallow  pretence  !" 

Sartain  listened  to  this  iconoclastic  declaration,  won 
dering  why  it  was  that  one  woman  liked  to  run  down 
another,  and  thinking  how  acutely  Thackeray  had  been 
able  to  reproduce  this  feminine  characteristic. 

"I  wish  I  could  think  myself  good  enough  for  Miss 
Esther,"  he  said,  at  last. 

"  Oh,  you  are  incorrigible,"  cried  Johnny,  rising  to 
her  feet.  "  You  go  over  to  her  now,  and  you'll  see 
that  she  won't  forgive  you  for  having  this  confidential 
chat  with  me." 

Sartain  stood  up.  He  wanted  to  repel  this  insinua 
tion  against  Esther.  But  Johnny  had  left  him  and 


244  A   CONFIDENT  TO-MORROW 

joined  her  sisters  at  the  table  where  Adams  had  just 
completed  half  a  dozen  Welsh-rabbits. 

At  the  call  of  the  host,  Vivian  escorted  Esther  to  the 
table.  Sartain  could  not  but  remark  that  his  manner 
towards  the  girl  was  caressing  and  yet  not  in  any  way 
offensive.  Esther  stood  by  the  side  of  Johnny,  while 
Sartain  went  to  get  chairs  for  them.  It  surprised  him 
a  little  to  see  that  they  had  their  arms  about  each 
other's  waists. 

When  they  were  seated,  there  was  no  place  for  him 
save  at  the  other  end  of  the  table  between  the  twins. 

They  tasted  Adams's  oysters  and  his  Welsh-rabbits, 
they  devoured  Vivian's  Vera  Cruz  salad,  and  they 
drank  bottle  beer  in  the  pewter  mugs  that  the  artist 
had  picked  up  in  Holland.  They  all  talked  at  once. 

Sartain  alone  said  little,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that 
Esther  was  treating  him  with  unusual  coldness.  Gen 
erally  she  was  affable  and  friendly,  but  at  this  supper 
she  was  chilly  and  almost  haughty.  He  could  not  imag 
ine  what  he  might  have  done  to  offend  her.  He  was 
the  more  grieved  at  this  change  of  attitude  on  her  part 
as  it  was  accompanied  by  a  display  of  greater  cordial 
ity  towards  Adams.  As  the  supper  progressed  Sartain 
sank  into  a  moody  dissatisfaction  with  himself,  aiid,  in 
deed,  with  everybody  except  her. 

He  took  no  notice  of  the  magpie  chatter  of  the 
twins,  and  he  was  hardly  conscious  when  Johnny  left 
the  table,  sat  down  at  the  piano,  and  played  the  ac 
companiment  for  the  latest  negro  melody,  which  her 
sisters  sang  with  full  appreciation  of  its  exotic  humor. 

When  this  had  come  to  an  end,  Dora  turned  to  the 
absorbed  lover  and  said,  "  You  sing  us  something  now, 
Mr.  Sartain." 


A   CONFIDENT  TO-MOKROW  245 

"  That's  so,"  Theo  added.  "  Sing  us  that  love-song 
—the  Arab  one,  you  know.  That  was  splendid  !" 

"  Don't  urge  Mr.  Sartain  to  sing  just  after  eating," 
snid  Johnny. 

"  But  he  didn't  eat  anything  at  all,"  Theo  retorted. 

"And  Esther  has  never  heard  him  sing  that  song," 
Dora  declared.  "Have  you,  Esther  ?" 

Esther  acknowledged  that  she  had  not  heard  it,  as 
she  had  never  been  present  on  any  of  the  occasions 
when  Mr.  Sartain  had  sung  it. 

Johnny  rose  from  the  piano  and  closed  the  cover  on 
the  keys. 

Theo  instantly  took  her  place.  "  I  know  the  ac 
companiment,"  she  cried,  as  she  began. 

"  Now,  Mr.  Sartain,"  Dora  urged. 

Sartain  looked  at  Esther,  to  see  if  she  really  wanted 
to  hear  him;  but  she  was  talking  to  Mr.  Vivian, almost 
ostentatiously. 

Then  he  decided  to  sing.  He  was  aware  that  he 
had  a  good  voice,  uncultivated  though  it  was  ;  and  he 
believed  that  the  Bedouin  song  was  well  within  its 
compass.  He  recalled  the  words  hastily  as  he  took 
his  place  beside  the  piano,  and  he  was  pleased  at  the 
way  in  which  they  expressed  his  own  emotioiis.  He 
did  not  think  that  the  Arab  lover  was  more  devoted  to 
the  object  of  his  affection  than  he  was  to  Esther  ;  and 
he  had  a  vague  hope  she  might  guess  perhaps  that  he 
was  giving  utterance  to  his  own  feelings  also. 

"Are  you  ready?"  asked  the  girl  at  the  piano. 
"  Then  go  ahead  !" 

The  Orientalism  of  the  first  stanza  made  the  song 
impersonal,  as  he  sang  it ;  and  yet  he  did  not  dare  to 
look  at  Esther.  As  he  reached  the  refrain,  with  its 


246  A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW 

promise  of  eternal  adoration,  his  eyes  happened  to  fall 
on  Johnny,  who  was  sitting  back  in  an  easy-chair  in  a 
constrained  attitude,  as  though  gripping  its  arms.  Her 
gaze  was  fixed ;  and  when  Sartain  involuntarily  fol 
lowed  its  direction,  he  discovered  that  she  was  staring 
intently  at  Esther,  whose  head  was  turned  away. 

In  singing  the  second  stanza,  Sartain  sympathized 
fully  with  the  yearning  of  the  lover,  and  he  knew  he 
had  never  before  put  so  much  feeling  into  his  delivery: 

"Look  from  thy  window  and  see 

My  passion  find  my  pain  ; 
I  lie  on  the  sands  below, 

And  I  faint  in  thy  disdain. 
Let  the  night- winds  touch  thy  brow 

With  the  heat  of  my  burning  sigh, 
And  melt  thee  to  hear  the  vow 

Of  a  love  that  shall  not  die 

"  Till  the  sun  grows  cold, 
And  the  stars  are  old, 
And  the  leaves  of  the  Judgment  Book  unfold  !" 

When  the  rich  barytone  notes  died  away,  there  was 
a  round  of  applause.  Sartain  looked  at  Esther.  She 
sat  still  on  the  lounge,  with  her  head  averted,  making 
no  sign  of  approval. 

Then  Johnny  rose  to  her  feet  and  went  over  to  the 
window.  "  This  room  is  positively  stifling  !"  she  said. 
"  Can't  we  have  some  air  ?" 

Five  minutes  later  there  came  a  knock  at  the  door, 
and  Dircks  arrived  to  take  his  daughter  home,  where 
upon  the  party  broke  up.  When  Sartain  bade  Esther 
good-night,  he  saw  that  her  eyes  were  singularly  bright, 
and  that  there  was  more  color  on  her  cheek  than  usual. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

AFTER  the  election,  the  circulation   of  Manhattan 

increased  for  a  week  or  two,  and  then  began  to,  de 
cline.  Neither  Sartaiii  nor  Truax  could  understand 
why  it  was  that  the  paper  did  not  appeal  to  a  larger 
circle  of  readers.  They  had  put  their  heads  together 
and  prepared  a  most  alluring  series  of  announcements 
for  the  next  year  ;  and  as  this  would  be  expensive, 
they  consulted  Dircks,  who  had  hitherto  paid  the 
weekly  deficit  without  a  murmur. 

He  listened,  transfixing  first  Truax  and  then  Sartain 
with  a  glance  from  under  his  immense  eyebrows.  His 
fingers  were  gripping  and  ungripping  the  handle  of 
the  big  cotton  umbrella  he  sometimes  carried.  He 
heard  them  out,  and  then  he  asked,  "  What  '11  it 
cost  ?" 

When  he  was  told,  he  said,  slowly,  "  That's  a  sight 
of  money,  but  I'll  risk  it,  if  you  say  so.  I  got  it  now, 
anyway." 

The  publisher  of  the  paper  pointed  out  that  they 
might  hope  to  get  back  in  subscriptions  before  New 
Year's  all  they  had  expended  in  this  Christmas  adver 
tising. 

'•  I  suppose  you  might  as  well  have  it,  sooner  or 
later,"  was  all  Dircks  answered. 

But  as  he  was  going  out  of  the  door  of  the  office 


248  A   CONFIDENT  TO-MOKROW 

he  stopped  on  the  threshold  and  turned  back  to  ask, 
"  How  much  did  you  say  we  lost  this  week  ?" 

Truax  gave  him  the  figures. 

"I  wouldn't  mind  it,"  the  old  man  declared,  "if 
you'd  only  go  for  these  scoundrels  harder.  Show  them 
up  ! — that's  what  the  paper's  for,  ain't  it  ?" 

During  the  last  few  weeks  of  the  year  the  sales  of 
Manhattan  remained  stationary ;  there  were  fewer  sub 
scriptions  renewed  than  Truax  expected,  and  fewer 
new  subscribers.  Sartain  did  what  he  could  to  re 
duce  expenses.  He  wrote  all  the  editorial  articles  him 
self,  and  he  also  contributed  nearly  every  week  one 
signed  article.  He  was  particular  not  to  buy  any  man 
uscript,  however  tempting  it  might  be  in  theme  or  in 
treatment,  unless  he  could  use  it  immediately  ;  and 
he  kept  down  the  stock  of  accepted  contributions  as 
low  as  he  dared. 

For  the  new  year  he  had  announced  his  new  serial, 
A  Wolf  at  the  Door,  as  by  "  S.  Francis,"  the  author 
of  Dust  and  Ashes,  not  having  himself  acknowledged 
its  authorship  ;  and  he  began  to  prepare  a  series  of 
"  Portraits  in  Black  and  White,"  to  appear  one  every 
week.  These  he  resolved  to  sign  by  another  pen-name, 
"Kembrandt  Knickerbocker,"  appropriate  to  the  sharp 
and  etcher-like  manner  in  which  he  intended  to  handle 
certain  contemporary  notabilities.  The  first  of  these 
chiaroscuro  studies  of  his  fellow-citizens  was  to  be  de 
voted  to  the  President  of  the  United  States,  the  second 
to  the  Governor  of  the  State,  the  third  to  the  Mayor 
of  the  city ;  these  three  officials  being  disposed  of,  he 
meant  to  consider  in  turn  the  chief  authors,  painters, 
actors,  architects,  and  sculptors  of  New  York. 

Foremost  amona:  the  men  of  letters  to  have  their 


A   CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW  249 

portraits  painted  in  this  series  was  Vivian ;  and  Sartain 
sot  himself  conscientiously  to  re-read  all  the  elder 
author's  books  in  chronological  sequence,  that  he  might 
truce  the  development  of  Vivian's  talent.  AVith  a  sur 
prise  that  grew  as  he  re-read  volume  after  volume  of 
Vivian's  writings,  he  discovered  that  he  could  no  longer 
assign  to  the  elder  author  so  high  a  place  as  he  had 
hitherto  given  him.  It  came  upon  him  with  a  certain 
shock  that  he  had  outgrown  Vivian,  that  he  had  passed 
beyond  the  stage  in  which  such  writing  as  Vivian's 
was  to  be  admired  inevitably,  and  that  perhaps,  after 
all,  he  had  been  setting  too  high  a  value  upon  Vivian's 
work.  Being  modest,  he  distrusted  his  own  judgment 
at  first,  and  read  on  and  on,  hoping  to  find  reason  to 
return  to  his  earlier  estimate.  Being  honest,  he  had 
to  ask  himself  whether  his  feeling  towards  the  author 
hud  not  been  changed  perhaps  by  his  knowledge  that 
the  man  was  attentive  to  Esther  Dircks.  But  he  was 
forced  regretfully  to  the  conclusion  that  Vivian's  work 
had  limitations  he  had  not  seen  before  ;  it  was  clever, 
unfailingly  clever,  but  cleverness  itself  no  longer  ap 
pealed  to  him  as  it  did  when  he  was  in  college ;  it  was 
shrewd,  it  was  polished,  and  it  was  always  as  careful 
as  possible — and  this  was  perhaps  why  it  now  struck 
Sartain  as  a  little  hard  in  its  manner  and  as  somewhat 
monotonous.  It  was  not  superficial,  and  it  was  not 
narrow,  certainly ;  but  it  did  lack  depth  and  breadth. 
The  ingenuity  with  which  the  stories  were  compounded 
was  obvious — perhaps,  indeed,  it  was  only  too  evident ; 
and  Sartain  saw  that,  if  he  were  a  hostile  critic,  he 
would  be  tempted  to  call  it  almost  mechanical.  With 
out  being  a  hostile  critic,  with  the  utmost  friendliness 
for  Vivian,  with  gratitude  towards  him  for  many  kind- 


250  A   CONFIDENT  TO-MOEROW 

nesses  received,  with  a  real  liking  for  the  man  himself, 
Sartain  came  sadly  to  the  conclusion  that  the  failing 
of  these  novels  he  had  once  admired  unhesitatingly— 
the  fatal  failing,  as  it  seemed  to  him  now — was  that 
they  lacked  "the  ruddy  drop  of  human  blood,"  as  Lo 
well  had  called  it.  Their  damning  defect  was  the  ab 
sence  from  their  pages  of  any  convincing  portrayal  of 
humanity. 

In  other  ways  also  those  last  weeks  of  the  year  were 
a  season  of  doubt  and  a  time  of  reaction.  There  was 
a  change  in  the  attitude  of  Esther  Dircks  towards 
him ;  he  did  not  understand  just  what  it  was  nor  why 
it  should  be,  but  he  felt  it  of  a  certainty.  After  the 
supper  in  the  studio  on  Election  night  she  was  more 
distant.  Her  mannea*  had  always  been  friendly,  and 
she  had  always  greeted  him  as  though  glad  to  see  him. 
Sometimes  Sartain  had  felt  like  resenting  this  equable 
friendliness,  as  less  promising  towards  a  lover  than  an 
obvious  aloofness.  But  now  that  the  friendliness  had 
chilled,  now  that  the  woman  he  loved  apparently  pre 
ferred  that  there  should  be  no  approach  to  intimacy, 
he  was  really  distressed.  When  he  met  her  at  Vivian's, 
or  elsewhere,  she  was  not  exactly  frigid,  but  her  polite 
ness  was  decidedly  cold  ;  and  when  he  called  in  Stuyve- 
sant  Square,  as  he  did  two  or  three  times  in  the  course 
of  November  and  December,  her  father  happened  al 
ways  to  be  at  home,  and  she  took  little  part  in  the 
conversation.  Once,  when  the  talk  went  back  to  Elec 
tion  night,  she  asked  him  whose  the  words  were  of  the 
song  he  had  sung — "that  pretty  little  Oriental  lyric." 

Reviews  of  Dust  and  Ashes  continued  to  appear,  but 
they  were  none  of  them  either  very  commendatory  or 
very  condemnatory ;  and  in  time  Sartain  came  to  ac- 


A   CONFIDENT  TO-MOBBOW  251 

cept  the  fact  that  even  if  the  book  should  sell  fairly 
well,  it  had  failed  absolutely  to  make  the  hit  he  had 
hoped  for.  There  were  none  of  the  outward  signs  that 
evidence  public  interest  in  a  novel,  no  paragraphs 
about  it  in  the  literary  notes  of  the  newspapers,  no 
editorial  discussion  of  its  theme,  no  inquiry  as  to  the 
personality  of  the  author,  with  anecdotes  of  his  methods 
of  work,  of  his  boyish  precocity,  of  his  dead  mother, 
and  of  his  plans  for  the  future.  Dust  and  Ashes  had 
been  received  as  most  novels  are  received,  nine-tenths 
of  which  live  a  day  and  die  and  leave  no  trace  ;  and 
there  was  nothing  in  its  reception  to  tempt  the  author 
to  reveal  his  identity. 

His  position  as  editor  of  Manhattan  had  greatly  in 
creased  Sartain's  circle  of  acquaintance  in  New  York. 
He  had  been  taken  to  more  than  one  of  the  fortnightly 
meetings  of  the  Writers'  Club,  he  had  been  asked 
two  or  three  times  to  the  Saturday  nights  of  the  Mil 
lennium,  and  he  had  even  been  invited  to  take  part  in  a 
debate  at  the  Contemporary.  Although  he  was  not  of 
a  suspicious  nature,  sometimes  he  thought  he  detected 
in  those  who  made  these  advances  a  desire  to  be  on 
good  terms  with  the  editor  of  a  journal  like  Manhattan, 
which  was  constantly  criticising  the  doings  of  its  con 
temporaries. 

It  was  on  the  last  Saturday  of  the  year  that  he  was 
invited  to  a  luncheon  at  the  Millennium.  That  very 
morning,  as  it  chanced,  the  Gossip  had  published  an 
article  on  Dust  and  Ashes,  which  was  by  far  the  least 
favorable  Sartain  had  yet  seen.  It  jeered  at  the  ob 
vious  youth  of  the  author,  mocked  at  his  enthusiasm, 
sniffed  at  his  style,  and  denounced  his  morality  ;  and 
it  supported  some  of  its  assertions  by  quotations  in- 


232  A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW 

geniously  wrenched  from  their  context.  As  Sartain 
read  it  his  face  flushed  as  though  he  had  been  smitten 
in  a  public  place.  Then  he  re-read  it,  and  the  gross  in 
decency  of  it  revolted  him,  and  its  essential  dishonesty 
lay  bare  before  him.  Pitiful  as  it  was,  and  contempti 
ble,  it  was  painful  also ;  and  Sartain  smiled  sadly  as  he 
asked  himself  whether  an  author  who  had  been  thus 
excoriated  ought  to  venture  into  the  presence  of  the 
public. 

But  he  was  greeted  as  though  the  Gossip  did  not 
exist.  He  happened  to  sit  next  to  the  editor  of  the 
Arctic  Monthly,  and,  while  they  were  smoking,  the 
editor  dropped  his  voice  and  said  that  he  was  very  glad 
to  meet  Sartain,  and  that  this  was  no  time  to  talk 
business,  of  course,  but  that  he  wished  Sartain  would 
write  him  a  paper  on  the  government  of  American 
cities — for  the  March  number,  if  lie  could  have  it 
ready  then. 

Long  before  the  lunch -party  left  the  book  lined 
private  dining-room  of  the  Millennium,  the  equanimity 
of  the  young  author  was  fully  restored,  and  he  was 
able  to  enjoy  the  good  cheer  and  good  talk. 

As  he  came  down  the  broad  marble  stairs  of  the 
sumptuous  club-house,  Vivian  said  to  him,  "Why  not 
walk  up-town  with  me  ?  It's  a  beautiful  afternoon, 
and  you  can't  have  any  work  to  do  at  the  end  of  the 
week." 

They  went  to  Fifth  Avenue  and  turned  up.  It  was 
a  beautiful  afternoon,  as  Vivian  had  said — clear,  dry, 
windless — with  the  sun  setting  in  fiery  glory.  Sartain 
recalled  his  solitary  walk  up  the  avenue,  more  than 
a  year  earlier,  when  he  was  alone  in  New  York,  and 
was  just  going  to  pay  his  first  visit  to  Vivian.  How 


A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW  253 

many  things  had  happened  in  those  fourteen  months  ! 
— the  meeting  with  Esther,  the  editing  of  Manhattan, 
the  publication  of  Dust  and  Ashes. 

The  recalling  of  his  novel  led  him  to  ask  Vivian  if 
he  had  seen  the  last  Gossip. 

"I  wish  I  had  seen  the  last  of  it/'  was  the  answer; 
' •'  it  is  unworthy  to  live.  But  I  saw  it  gave  you  a  good 
notice  this  morning,  if  that  is  what  you  mean." 

"A  good  notice?"  Sartain  repeated.  "Why,  the 
savage  scalped  me  !" 

Vivian  smiled.  "It  was  about  two  columns  long, 
as  I  recall  it,"  he  said.  "  What  can  you  ask  for  more  ? 
When  you  are  as  old  as  I  am,  and  when  your  shelf 
has  as  many  books  on  it  as  mine  has,  then  you  will 
know  that  a  review  is  good  in  proportion  to  its  length. 
Whether  it  contains  praise  or  blame  is  of  little  im 
portance — that  is  only  one  man's  opinion.  Of  course, 
the  praise  is  pleasanter  ;  but  the  blame,  however  bit 
ter,  is  better  than  nothing  at  all.  What  is  really  sig 
nificant  is  the  length  of  the  article ;  that  measures  the 
angle  the  book  subtends  in  the  public  eye." 

"  I  see  what  you  mean,"  Sartain  admitted  ;  "but  I 
am  not  callous  yet." 

"And  I  am  not  either,"  the  other  confessed,  frank 
ly,  "  for  all  that  I  am  twice  your  age,  and  have  had 
many  more  books  killed  under  me.  It  was  a  counsel 
of  perfection  I  was  giving  you.  Of  course,  the  insult 
hurts." 

They  walked  on  in  silence  for  a  few  paces,  and  then 
Vivian  resumed  : 

"I  have  often  thought  that  some  authors  are  like 
the  crocodile  that  hides  its  eggs  in  the  sand  and  never 
cares  what  becomes  of  them ;  while  some  other  writers 


254  A   CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW 

are  devoted  parents,  who  bring  up  their  offspring  by 
hand  and  sit  np  with  it  all  night,  and  sometimes  find 
it  hard  to  carry  it  through  the  second  summer.  Real 
ly,  it  does  not  matter  which  course  you  choose  ;  the 
neglected  egg  may  hatch  out  a  masterpiece,  and  the 
cherished  babe  may  die  in  its  cradle.  Time  alone  can 
decide ;  we  authors  are  powerless,  and  powerless  are 
the  reviewers  also  —  fortunately.  Just  now  it  seems 
to  me  that  most  of  those  who  write  about  books  in 
the  newspapers  are  old  fogies  who  think  literature 
died  with  Sir  Walter,  or  else  fresh  young  men  who 
think  it  was  born  with  Stevenson." 

"  There  are  more  of  the  pert  youngsters,  I  guess," 
Sartain  declared,  "if  I  can  judge  from  the  notices  of 
my  own  book.  Even  when  they  are  kindly — and  they 
are  mostly  kindly — they  reveal  their  own  inability  to 
understand  and  to  appreciate." 

"Yes,"  said  the  elder  novelist,  "they  cannot  help 
showing  the  natural  contempt  clever  and  ignorant 
young  men  have  for  their  elders  and  betters.  And 
yet  I  have  no  reason  to  complain  ;  it  is  very  rare  that 
I  myself  am  not  treated  with  courtesy  nowadays.  I 
fancy  that  is  one  of  the  benefits  of  growing  old  ;  they 
pay  me  the  respect  due  to  age." 

Sartain  noticed  how  briskly  Vivian  walked  and  how 
firmly,  and  he  was  surprised  when  the  other  turned  to 
him. 

"I  suppose  the  end  of  the  year  is  not  a  melancholy 
season  to  you,"  he  said.  "  It  is  to  me.  Every  De 
cember  now  I  have  to  count  the  friends  and  acquaint 
ances  who  have  fallen  by  the  wayside  at  one  or  another 
of  the  twelve  mile-stones.  When  I  meet  a  man  I  knew 
twenty  or  thirty  years  ago,  I  want  to  shake  hands 


A   CONFIDENT  TO-MORROW  255 

li  ourtily  and  ask  him  to  dinner.  I  think  of  getting  up 
a  club  to  dine  together  on  the  last  day  of  the  year,  and 
to  be  called  'The  Survivors.'" 

Sartain  was  surprised  at  the  sadness  in  Vivian's 
voice.  It  was  a  bright  day,  and  the  young  man  looked 
forward  to  many  years  of  delightful  work. 

"I  do  not  know  why  you  should  be  melancholy/7 
he  said,  at  last.  "You  are  a  successful  man — 

"  Am  I  ?"  interrupted  Vivian.  "  I  am  a  lucky  man 
—that  I  know;  and  I  have  had  far  more  than  my 
share  of  the  good  things  of  life — health  and  friends 
and  the  use  of  money,  and  all  that.  I  have  been  far 
happier  than  I  deserve,  if  I  really  deserved  happiness 
at  all — and  that  is  a  point  on  which  I  refuse  to  com 
mit  myself.  But  successful  ?  Have  I  been  success 
ful  ?" 

Sartain  did  not  know  what  answer  to  make  to  this 
personal  appeal. 

"  Since  I  have  begun  to  talk  to  you  in  this  confiden 
tial  way,"  Vivian  continued,  "  I  might  as  well  go  on 
and  havo  my  say  out.  I  have  never  confessed  it  be 
fore  to  anybody,  and  I  cannot  see  why  I  should  to  you, 
but  I  do  not  think  that  I  can  fairly  be  called  a  suc 
cessful  author." 

Sartain  was  about  to  protest  and  to  ask  for  an  ex 
planation  when  Vivian  went  on. 

"I  know  what  you  would  say.  I  place  all  that  I 
write  in  the  great  magazines  and  I  get  the  best  prices. 
That  is  true  enough,  so  far  as  it  goes.  But  my  books 
do  not  sell.  I  mean  by  that,  that  I  have  never  writ 
ten  -a  really  popular  novel.  Xow  and  then  a  story  of 
mine  has  slowly  crawled  up  to  a  sale  of  eight  or  nine 
thousand  copies,  and  there  it  sticks.  Yet  a  sale  of 


256  A   CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW 

perhaps  fifty  thousand  copies  is  quite  possible,  with 
out  breaking  through  the  crust." 

"  Breaking  through  the  crust  ?"  echoed  Sartain. 

"  What  I  mean  is  this,"  Vivian  explained.  "  Any 
novel  published  by  a  well-established  house  ought  to 
sell  a  thousand  or  two  copies,  and  if  the  author  is  also 
well  established  it  may  sell  ten  thousand.  The  reading 
circle  in  the  United  States  is  large  enough  to  absorb 
anywhere  from  twenty  to  fifty  thousand  of  any  book 
it  likes.  But  beyond  fifty  thousand  it  is  hardly  possi 
ble  to  push  a  book.  Yet  if  a  novel  happens  to  break 
through  the  crust  and  to  get  outside  of  the  circum 
ference  of  the  reading  circle,  which  is  more  or  less 
literary,  if  it  gets  into  circulation  among  the  non- 
literary  outside  public,  then  there  is  no  guessing  how 
many  copies  of  it  may  be  sold,  for  the  outside  market 
contains  nearly  seventy  millions  of  people.  Kow  I 
should  have  liked  to  write  one  book  that  really  reached 
my  fellow-citizens — that  had  a  sale  of  a  hundred  thou 
sand  or  so.  I  never  have  written  it,  and  I  suppose 
that  now  I  never  shall." 

He  paused,  and  Sartain  felt  that  he  was  expected  to 
offer  some  consolation.  His  honesty  forbade,  and  he 
kept  silent. 

"Of  course,  I  do  not  blame  the  public,  for  not  rush 
ing  to  buy  my  wares,"  Vivian  resumed;  "the  public 
knows  what  it  wants,  and  it  knows  that  it  does  not 
want  my  books.  Of  course,  I  never  tried  to  guess  at 
the  public  taste,  and  to  write  a  story  in  accord  with  my 
guess.  I  have  written  always  to  please  myself — I  have 
written  what  I  wanted  to  write.  After  all,  I  have  had 
my  reward  in  the  joy  of  my  work." 

Here  Sartain  was  ready  to  agree  with  him.     "I'm 


A    CONFIDENT   TO-MOKROW  257 

glad  to  hear  you  say  that/'  he  said  ;  "  so  many  authors 
complain  of  the  strain  and  struggle  of  composition." 

"Either  they  are  insincere/'  Vivian  declared,  "or 
they  are  working  against  the  grain,  and  their  work  is 
probably  worthless.  There  is  no  joy  equal  to  the 
craftsman's  when  he  is  doing  his  best.  Sometimes  I 
have  wondered  why  we  should  ever  get  paid  for  writ 
ing  ;  it  is  such  fun  that  we  ought  to  be  made  to  buy 
the  privilege.  Nobody  who  reads  a  story  of  mine  can 
get  a  tithe  of  the  pleasure  out  of  it  I  had  in  its  crea 
tion." 

"  And  do  your  characters  take  the  bit  in  their 
teeth/'  asked  the  younger  novelist,  ""and  run  away 
from  you,  and  make  love  to  each  other  and  patch  up 
marriages  you  disapprove  of,  while  you  toil  after  them 
breathless  and  happy  ?" 

"  They  are  a  most  independent  and  arbitrary  lot, 
those  children  of  our  fancy,"  Vivian  responded,  as  they 
crossed  the  Plaza  and  turned  down  Fifty-ninth  Street. 
"And  we  love  them  dearly  and  never  dare  to  disin 
herit  them.  I  wish  the  public  would  only  take  half 
the  interest  in  my  lovers  and  in  their  quarrels  and 
reconciliations  that  I  do." 

Sartain  left  Vivian  at  the  door  of  the  great  apart 
ment-house  that  overlooked  Central  Park,  after  de 
clining  a  pressing  invitation  to  come  up  for  a  smoke. 
As  he  walked  down  Fifth  Avenue  alone  in  the  twi 
light,  now  swiftly  shutting  in  on  the  city,  while  the 
electric  lights  twinkled  ahead  of  him,  he  went  over  all 
that  Vivian  had  said  to  him.  After  a  while  he  began 
to  see  that  perhaps  the  reason  why  Vivian's  works  had 
not  laid  hold  of  people's  hearts  was  because  Vivian 
was  an  artist  only,  and  because  he  was  a  happy  man. 

17 


258  A   CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW 

Vivian  had  not  learned  in  sorrow  what  he  told  in 
story  ;  he  had  never  sounded  the  depths  of  emotion  or 
climbed  the  heights  of  sorrow.  Then,  with  his  habit 
of  making  a  personal  application  to  himself,  Sartain 
asked  whether  or  not  his  own  literary  future  depend 
ed  on  a  tragedy  in  his  life,  whether  or  not  the  price 
of  the  triumph  of  his  literary  ambition  might  not  be 
the  failure  of  his  wooing  of  Esther  Dircks.  He  faced 
the  dilemma  boldly,  and  he  knew  what  choice  he 
would  make  should  the  devil  proffer  it.  He  would 
sooner  fail  ignominiously,  if  he  might  marry  Esther, 
rather  than  succeed  gloriously  without  her. 


CHAPTER  XX 

So  the  old  year  drew  to  an  end  and  passed  away, 
and  a  new  year  came,  with  fresh  hopes,  high  anticipa 
tion,  and  lofty  resolutions.  It  brought  no  change  for 
the  better  to  the  journal  that  Sartain  edited.  In  the 
first  number  of  the  new  volume  appeared  the  opening 
instalment  of  A  Wolf  at  the  Door.  In  spite  of  this  at 
traction,  the  circulation  of  Manhattan  remained  stag 
nant  ;  now  and  then  it  rose  a  little,  but  more  often 
than  not  it  fell.  Both  editor  and  publisher  were  as 
economical  as  they  dared  to  be,  and  yet  the  weekly  de 
ficit  did  not  diminish. 

A  Wolf  at  the  Door  was  published  in  brief  instal 
ments,  a  single  chapter  at  a  time,  and  the  heroine, 
although  glimpsed  fitfully  in  the  earlier  parts,  did  not 
really  appear  on  the  stage  of  the  story  until  the  fifth 
or  sixth  part.  It  was  only  in  the  seventh  chapter  that 
her  personal  appearance  was  described  at  length,  and 
this  was  not  published  in  Manhattan  until  nearly  the 
end  of  February. 

In  the  two  months  he  had  seen  Esther  as  often  as  he 
could  ;  sometimes  on  Saturday  at  the  Vivians',  some 
times  on  Sunday  at  her  father's,  sometimes  during  the 
week  at  a  private  view,  a  concert,  or  a  meeting  of  the 
Contemporary.  The  last  Sunday  in  February  was  the 
first  since  the  heroine  of  A  Wolf  at  the  Door  had  made 


260  A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW 

her  appearance,  and  Sartain  went  to  Stuyvesant  Square 
that  afternoon  hoping  that  she  had  read  his  story,  and 
that  she  would  see  in  it  the  evidence  of  the  devotion 
he  felt  for  her. 

As  he  was  about  to  ring  the  bell,  the  door  opened  and 
Dircks  came  out.  "  It's  you/'  the  old  man  said,  as  he 
shook  hands  with  Sartain.  "  Esther's  in.  Mr.  Adams 
is  visiting  with  her.  I  come  out  for  air.  I  got  to 
walk,  or  I  presume  likely  I'll  choke." 

The  young  man  saw  that  Dircks  was  not  looking 
well ;  he  was  thinner,  and  his  clothes  now  hung  about 
his  huge  frame  more  loosely  than  ever.  He  was  wilder 
in  his  manner  also,  less  ponderous,  more  brusque.  Even 
the  external  benignity  Sartain  had  been  struck  by  when 
he  first  beheld  the  engraver  was  disappearing.  There, 
as  he  stood  on  the  stoop,  Dircks  seemed  almost  fierce  ; 
he  was  a  little  like  a  great  wild  beast  going  forth  from 
his  lair  for  a  prowl. 

"  You  are  not  feeling  ill,  are  you  ?"  Sartain  asked. 

"  I  don't  know  what  it  is  to  be  sick,"  Dircks  an 
swered.  "I  'ain't  never  lost  a  day  by  sickness." 

His  tones  were  a  little  defiant,  and  so  was  his  whole 
manner.  Again  Sartain  remarked  how  very  white  the 
old  man's  eyeballs  were,  and  how  very  black  the  pu 
pils.  The  beetling  eyebrows  were  bent  as  Dircks  gazed 
at  him  fixedly,  and  no  longer  were  they  in  contradic 
tion  with  his  other  features,  the  general  impression  of 
which  had  been  kindly  hitherto. 

"  Perhaps  you  are  a  little  tired,"  suggested  Sartain. 
"  Have  you  been  working  too  hard  ?" 

"  I  ''ain't  worked  at  all  this  week,"  Dircks  replied. 
"  There  wa'n't  any  work  to  do.  'Tain't  often  there  is, 
now." 


A   CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW  261 

' '  I  hope  you  are  not  worrying  about  the  loss  on  the 
paper/'  Sartain  began,  seized  by  a  sudden  impulse  to 
sacrifice  himself  to  the  comfort  of  her  father. 

"  Money  don't  worry  me,"  Dircks  answered,  with  a 
growl. 

"  Because,  if  you  were,"  the  editor  continued,  "may 
be  we  can  cut  down  the  expenses  a  little  all  round.  I 
guess  Truax  would  take  a  shave  off  his  salary,  and  I'm 
quite  ready  to  have  mine  reduced  to  —  well,  to  half 
what  it  is — if — if  that's  the  best  thing  to  do." 

"'Tain't  the  best  thing,"  the  old  man  responded. 
"  I  know  better.  If  you  got  a  willing  ox,  and  you  want 
to  work  him  hard,  you  got  to  feed  him." 

"  But  so  long  as  the  paper  is  losing  money,"  Sartain 
urged,  "I—" 

"No  use  talking,"  Dircks  declared,  with  emphasis. 
"You  take  money  when  you  can  get  it." 

"  Oh,  you  mean  I  had  best  draw  my  full  salary  ?"  he 
asked.  "  Of  course,  if  you  think  I  had  better,  I — I — " 

"Did  you  ever  read  the  Bible  ?"  asked  Dircks,  fac 
ing  Sartain,  menacingly. 

The  young  man  confessed  that  he  was  familiar  with 
the  Bible. 

"Then  you  know  that  piece  about  Lazarus,"  Dircks 
continued.  "First  off,  he  sat  at  the  rich  man's  gate 
and  he  was  hungry.  Now,  no  man  knows  what  that  is 
if  he  'ain't  been  hungry  himself.  Last  of  all,  Lazarus, 
he  goes  to  heaven,  and  the  rich  man  he  goes  to  tor 
ment.  Now,  that's  right — that's  gospel  truth.  That's 
the  rich  man's  place — in  torment — that's  where  it  is  ! 
The  poor  man,  he  got  his  torment  here  in  this  world." 

Sartain  was  puzzled  to  understand  the  exact  bearing 
of  this  outburst. 


262  A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW 

"  That's  why  I  tell  you,"  Dircks  resumed,  "  yon  get 
money  when  you  can.  You  get  it  from  me — that  don't 
matter  any.  I  never  could  keep  it,  anyhow." 

Then  he  shook  hands  again  with  the  young  man  and 
bade  him  go  up-stairs,  where  Esther  would  be  glad  to 
see  him. 

He  had  left  the  door  of  the  house  open  behind  him, 
and  Sartain  entered.  He  groped  his  way  up  the  stairs, 
always  dark  on  a  winter  afternoon.  As  he  came  tow 
ards  the  door  of  the  Dircks's  parlor  he  heard  Adams's 
voice,  unusually  plaintive  in  its  tone,  he  thought,  al 
though  he  did  not  catch  the  words.  Just  as  he  was 
about  to  knock  he  heard  Esther's  voice  answering  Ad 
ams's,  and  this  time  Sartain  could  not  help  hearing 
what  she  was  saying. 

"No,  no,  no,"  she  declared,  with  gentle  emphasis. 
' '  I  can't.  I've  told  you  so  before,  and — ' 

Then  there  was  a  sudden  silence  after  Sartain's  rap. 

Esther  was  startled  by  its  unexpectedness.  "  Oh  !" 
she  cried,  and,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  she  added, 
"  Come  in  !" 

When  he  entered  the  room  he  found  Esther  seated 
in  the  arrn-chair  near  the  window,  while  Adams  was 
standing  by  the  fireplace  in  a  constrained  attitude.  It 
struck  the  new-comer  that  the  girl  was  ill  at  ease  also. 
With  feminine  adaptability,  she  recovered  her  self- 
possession  more  rapidly  than  the  painter,  who  stood 
scowling  blackly  at  the  new-comer,  as  though  resent 
ing  the  interruption. 

Esther  smiled  at  Sartain,  and  held  out  her  hand. 

"  Do  you  know,  your  knock  really  took  me  so  by 
surprise  I  almost  jumped,"  she  said. 

"I  ought  to  explain  how  it  was  I  didn't  ring,"  he 


A   COXFIDEXT    TO-MOBEOW  263 

returned.  "  It  was  your  father.  I  met  him  at  the 
door,  and  we  had  a  little  chat,  and  he  told  me  to  come 
right  up.  I'm  sorry  I  was  so  inconsiderate.  I  might 
have  known  better.  I — I  beg  your  pardon." 

"  It's  absurd  for  me  to  be  so  nervous/'  she  responded,, 
with  an  assumption  of  liveliness. 

"  It  isn't,"  broke  in  Adams,  gruffly,  as  though  exag 
gerating  his  ill-humor  to  hide  it.  "  Sartain  ought  to 
proffer  an  apology  in  writing."  As  he  said  this  he 
ruffled  up  his  curly  hair  with  an  automatic  gesture. 

Then  Sartain  guessed  what  it  was  that  he  had  done, 
and  the  awkwardness  of  the  situation  was  made  plain 
to  him.  He  wished  that  he  had  come  a  little  earlier  or 
a  little  later  ;  he  regretted  that  he  had  come  at  all ;  he 
blushed  scarlet  as  he  perceived  the  indelicacy  of  his. 
intrusion  at  such  a  moment.  He  stood  there  still  and 
tongue-tied,  hoping  that  neither  of  the  others  would 
suspect  that  he  had  divined  the  cause  of  their  con 
straint. 

There  was  a  self-conscious  silence  for  half  a  minute,, 
as  though  no  one  knew  exactly  what  ought  to  be  said, 
and  hoped  that  one  of  the  others  would  speak  first. 
Then  both  Esther  and  Sartain  began  at  once. 

Sartain  discovered  that  he  had  not  greeted  Adams 
yet,  and  what  he  said  was,  "How  are  you  ?  How  are' 
you  ?" 

Esther  observed  that  both  of  the  men  were  stand 
ing.  '•  "Why  don't  you  two  sit  down  ?"  she  cried.  "  It 
makes  me  so  tired  to  see  people  on  their  feet  all  the 
time." 

Sartain  took  his  place  on  the  settee  facing  the  man 
tel-piece,  and  Adams  acknowledged  his  greeting  by 
saying,  "  How  are  you  ?  I'm  all  right." 


264  A   CONFIDENT  TO-MOEKOW 

Then  the  artist  straightened  himself  and  took  the 
authorized  position  of  a  man  standing  before  a  fire 
with  his  hands  behind  him.  "  Why  should  I  sit  down  ?" 
he  asked.  "I'm  as  happy  here  as  a  Roman  fisherman 
in  Lent." 

"How  did  you  think  father  was  looking  to-day?" 
asked  Esther,  turning  to  Sartain. 
?  "  Well/'  he  replied,  trying  not  to  alarm  her,  "  I  have 
seen  him  looking  better,  I  think." 

"  I'm  really  very  much  worried  about  him,"  she  re 
turned.  "  I  don't  know  what  has  come  over  him.  I've 
never  seen  him  so  before.  He  is  restless  now,  and  he 
seems  anxious  all  the  time.  He  tells  me  he  isn't  fret 
ting  about  anything ;  but  he  does  not  sleep  well,  and 
he  eats  scarcely  anything." 

"Perhaps  he  has  been  working  too  hard," suggested 
Adams,  in  a  more  natural  tone. 

"Yes,"  she  answered  ;  "he  has  shut  himself  up  in 
his  workshop  there  more  than  ever  lately ;  and  what  is 
very  curious  is  that  he  doesn't  show  me  what  he  has 
been  doing.  He  used  to,  always.  He  liked  to  let  me  help 
him  pull  a  proof,  and  he  wanted  my  opinion.  Now  I 
don't  know  just  what  it  is  he  has  been  working  at." 

Sartain  remembered  that  Dircks  had  just  told  him 
there  was  little  or  no  work  to  be  had  now. 

"I  don't  suppose  it's  counterfeit  money  he's  making 
in  there,"  Adams  suggested,  with  a  certain  bravado  in 
his  manner,  as  though  he  was  quite  aware  that  he  was 
talking  for  effect. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Adams  !"  protested  Esther. 

"  I  said  I  didn't  suppose  it  was,"  the  artist  explained, 
"  not  but  what  counterfeiting  is  as  honorable  a  means 
of  making  money  as  many  others  that  are  tolerated." 


A   CONFIDENT  TO-MORROW  265 

"I  expect  to  find  you  defending  highway-robbery 
next,"  she  retorted. 

"  I  am  willing  to  admit  that  the  burglar's  calling  has 
many  alluring  characteristics/'  said  Adams.  "  On  the 
whole,  however,  it  is  not  so  intellectual  a  craft  as  the 
detective's,  is  it  ?  That  is  why  I  think  I  should  make 
an  ideal  detective — it's  because  of  my  alert  intelligence. 
I  believe  I  should  be  about  as  hard  to  deceive  as  a 
Scottish  -  American  Jew,  if  such  a  monstrous  entity 
could  exist.  Zekiel  McLevi  would  be  his  name,  of 
course." 

Esther  and  Sartain  laughed  at  this,  as  they  were  ex 
pected  to  do  ;  and  artificial  as  Adams's  talk  was,  it 
served  to  relieve  the  strain  they  all  felt. 

The  editor  saw  two  or  three  numbers  of  Manhattan 
on  the  table  at  Esther's  elbow;  and  he  was  glad  to 
think  that,  perhaps,  just  before  Adams  had  arrived, 
she  had  been  reading  about  herself  as  she  was  de 
scribed  in  A  Wolf  at  the  Door. 

"  I  see  you  keep  up  with  the  best  literature  of  the 
day,"  he  said,  jestingly,  as  he  indicated  the  Manhattan. 

"  Generally  I  do,"  she  answered  ;  "but  I  have  been 
so  busy  the  past  month  I  haven't  had  time  even  to 
read  the  morning  paper." 

Sartain  was  deeply  disappointed,  but  he  could  not 
pursue  the  subject. 

"Do  you  call  that  a  good  newspaper  of  yours  ?" 
usked  Adams. 

"  Don't  you  ?"  was  Sartain's  response. 

"  Well,"  said  the  artist  with  the  deliberation  which 
indicated  to  those  who  knew  him  well  that  he  was  fit 
ting  a  shaft  to  his  bow,  "  I  suppose  it  is  a  pretty  good 
newspaper,  if  you  believe  that  no  news  is  good  news." 


266  A   COXFIDEXT   TO-MORKOW 

"If  that  gets  into  circulation/'  retorted  the  editor, 
laughing,  "  I  shall  have  to  suborn  an  art  critic  to 
abuse  the  next  picture  you  exhibit.'' 

"  Then  I  should  heap  coals  of  fire  on  your  head," 
Adams  replied.  "I'd  buy  a  copy,  and  double  your 
circulation  !" 

As  though  pleased  with  this  thrust,  and  willing  to  let 
it  be  the  climax,  he  left  his  place  before  the  fire  and 
went  towards  Esther. 

"I  can't  waste  my  afternoon  scattering  diamonds 
and  rubies  for  you  all  the  time,"  he  said.  "  I've  got 
an  engagement  at  the  club  at  five." 

"You  can't  better  that  last  cut,"  Esther  told  him, 
as  she  gave  him  her  hand. 

"Oh  yes,  I  can,"  he  declared,  "if  I  had  time.  You 
don't  know  what  I  can  do  in  that  way  when  I  give  my 
mind  up  to  it." 

When  he  had  gone,  Sartain  hoped  for  a  pleasant  talk 
with  Esther.  But  the  conversation  soon  took  a  turn  he 
did  not  like.  She  insisted  upon  discussing  the  Vivians, 
chiefly  the  father  and  the  elder  daughter.  She  went 
out  of  her  way  to  praise  Johnny,  asserting  that  she  had 
come  to  know  the  girl  better  during  their  summer  in 
Europe,  and  assuring  him  that  she  was  really  very  wom 
anly,  in  spite  of  her  little  mannish  assumptions. 

Esther's  laudation  of  another  woman,  whom  Sartain 
did  not  care  for,  rather  annoyed  him.  When  he  was 
alone  with  the  girl  he  wanted  to  talk  about  himself,  or 
to  have  her  talk  about  herself.  He  enjoyed  any  ex 
change  of  confidence,  as  a  proof  of  their  increasing 
intimacy.  One  of  Esther's  remarks  led  him  to  suspect 
that  she  thought  he  had  sung  the  Bedouin  song  for 
Johnny's  special  benefit;  and  he  would  have  liked  to 


A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW  267 

explain  at  once  that  he  had  sung  for  her  alone,  that  it 
was  the  thought  of  her  which  had  charged  his  voice 
with  emotion,  that  it  was  to  her  he  had  addressed  that 
burning  lyric  appeal.  He  was  tempted  almost  beyond 
resistance  to  drop  on  his  knees  there  at  her  feet  now 
to  tell  her  that  he  adored  her,  and  that  he  had  loved 
her  since  the  first  day  he  had  seen  her. 

The  excess  of  his  feelings  interfered  again  with  the 
clearness  of  his  speech.  He  cut  off  one  sentence  short, 
and  ended  another  with  a  straggling  word  or  two. 

Then  Esther  left  Johnny  for  a  while  and  began  to 
praise  Mr.  Vivian.  She  declared  that  nobody  could 
have  been  kinder  than  he  was  while  they  were  in 
Europe,  or  more  considerate,  and  that  often  he  thought 
of  her  comfort,  and  of  what  she  wanted,  before  he 
thought  of  his  own  daughters. 

Sartain's  jealousy  blazed  high  as  she  commended 
the  man  whom  he  knew  to  be  a  most  dangerous  rival. 

"Well/'  he  suggested,  "he  is  old  enough  to  be 
your  father." 

"But  he  doesn't  look  it,  does  he  ?"  she  returned. 

"I  don't  know  how  old  he  is,  really,"  Sartain  ad 
mitted,  "but  it  did  not  surprise  me  to  find  that  he 
had  a  daughter  as  old  as  Miss  Joan." 

"  If  he  docs  look  older  than  he  is,"  said  the  girl, 
shifting  her  ground,  "  it's  not  to  be  wondered  at,  con 
sidering  what  he  has  gone  through." 

"  I  thought  he  had  led  a  very  calm  life,"  Sartain 
returned — "the  placid  career  of  a  successful  man  of 
letters." 

"But  he  was  in  the  war,  too,"  she  replied.  "And 
the  sights  of  that  dreadful  time  would  be  enough  to 
age  anybody,  I'm  sure." 


268  A   CONFIDENT  TO-MORROW 

"  I  remember  now  that  he  was  in  the  army,"  he 
acknowledged.  "  He  looks  so  little  like  a  soldier  that 
I  had  forgotten  it." 

"And  do  you  know  how  it  was  he  came  to  be  a 
soldier  ?"  she  asked.  "  That's  the  finest  thing  I  ever 
heard  of.  He  was  a  young  man  when  the  war  broke 
out,  and  he  was  alone  in  Europe,  and  in  those  days  he 
was  very  poor — '; 

"  It  was  his  wife  who  had  the  fortune,  I  believe,'' 
said  Sartain,  a  little  maliciously. 

"  He  wasn't  married  then,"  she  resumed,  ' '  and,  as  I 
said,  he  was  very,  very  poor.  He  wanted  to  come 
home  at  once  and  enlist,  but  he  hadn't  any  money. 
So  he  shipped  as  a  common  sailor  at  Marseilles,  and 
he  came  back  that  way — before  the  mast,  you  call  it, 
don't  you  ?" 

Sartain  had  no  hesitation  in  acknowledging  that 
this  was  really  a  fine  thing  to  do.  He  wondered  how 
it  was  that  he  had  never  heard  of  it. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Vivian  never  talks  about  it,"  she  cried. 
"  It  was  Johnny  who  told  me.  Johnny  is  perfectly 
devoted  to  her  father.  You  must  get  her  to  tell  you 
all  about  it  some  day." 

He  wanted  to  be  able  to  assure  her  that  he  would 
rather  hear  even  bad  news  from  her  than  the  best  of 
good  tidings  from  Johnny.  He  remarked  the  anima 
tion  in  her  face  as  she  spoke  of  Johnny,  and  the  in 
tensity  of  her  expression.  He  saw  that  the  one  little 
vagabond  wisp  of  her  ashen  -  gold  hair  had  escaped 
again,  and  he  waited  for  the  easy  gesture  with  which 
she  replaced  it. 

"  Johnny  was  just  like  an  elder  sister  to  me,"  she 
said,  "  during  all  those  months  when  I  was  away  with 


A   CONFIDENT  TO-MORROW  269 

them.  Xobody  could  have  been  nicer.  I  love  her 
dearly." 

Then  Sartain  recalled  the  conversation  with  Johnny, 
in  which  she  had  wondered  what  it  was  that  made 
Esther  so  fascinating,  and  in  which  she  had  said  that 
she  loved  Esther  dearly. 

He  stayed  there  for  half  an  hour  longer,  in  spite  of 
the  fact  that  Esther  persisted  in  talking  about  the 
Vivians.  Even  when  he  got  up  to  go  at  last,  he  stood 
for  ten  minutes  with  his  hand  on  the  handle  of  the 
door,  while  they  discussed  the  taste  and  the  richness 
with  which  the  Vivians'  apartment  was  furnished. 

Sartain  confessed  that  he  was  very  sensitive  to  the 
influence  of  unaccustomed  surroundings,  and  that  the 
delicacy  of  the  furniture  and  the  general  air  of  luxury 
which  enveloped  him  the  first  time  he  called  there 
had  made  him  feel  out  of  place,  as  though  he  were  of 
clay  too  coarse  to  be  a  fit  associate  for  people  used  to 
things  of  that  sort.  And  then  Esther  admitted  that 
she  too  had  been  impressed  in  much  the  same  way. 
Upon  this  sympathy,  under  novel  circumstances,  their 
talk  flowed  on  with  more  warmth  than  before,  until 
she  again  praised  Johnny,  and  then  he  took  his  leave 
at  last. 

lie  strode  away  from  the  house  in  Stuyvesant  Square 
in  a  warmish  rain,  soft  and  gentle  as  though  it  knew 
itself  to  be  a  forerunner  of  spring.  Passion  was  strong 
in  his  veins,  and  he  had  almost  a  physical  ache  from 
its  tension.  It  was  the  love  of  Esther  Direks  that  he 
wanted  with  all  the  force  of  his  nature — lier  love,  and 
not  her  friendship.  And  he  saw  clearly  that  it  was 
her  friendship  only  that  she  was  proffering  him. 

While  he  walked  away  in  the  soothing  rain,  ready 


270  A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW 

to  take  all  nature  to  witness  the  strength  of  his  pas 
sion,  he  could  not  guess  that  he  had  left  her  thrilling 
with  the  touch  of  his  hand  as  he  bade  her  farewell, 
and  that  all  unconsciously  she  was  longing  for  the 
clasp  of  his  arm  about  her,  or  for  any  masculine  ad 
vance  that  would  assure  her  of  his  love — of  the  love 
that  she  thought  was  another's.  He  could  not  sus 
pect  that  she  sat  down  where  he  had  been  sitting  be 
cause  he  had  sat  there,  or  that  she  should  remember 
that  he  had  held  the  door-knob  in  his  hand  for  the 
final  minutes  of  their  talk,  and  that  therefore,  after  a 
virginal  glance  around,  to  make  sure  no  one  could  see 
her,  she  had  stooped  and  kissed  it  once  and  again. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

ABOUT  the  middle  of  March  there  was  a  strike  of 
the  street-car  employees  of  a  city  near  to  New  York ; 
and  in  this  struggle  the  inhabitants  of  the  metropolis 
took  the  liveliest  interest.  Exactly  what  the  merits 
of  the  contest  might  be,  it  was  difficult  to  declare.  In 
the  main,  the  sympathy  of  the  public  was  with  the 
strikers,  especially  in  the  beginning,  and  there  was  a 
general  expectation  that  the  company  would  submit 
the  matter  to  arbitration.  But  in  interviews  and  in 
letters  to  the  newspapers  the  president  of  the  street- 
railroad  asserted  that  the  company  proposed  to  manage 
its  own  business,  that,  its  employees  having  thrown  up 
their  engagements,  the  places  were  now  vacant,  and 
that  the  officials  intended  at  once  to  replace  the  old 
men  with  new. 

For  the  first  two  or  three  days  the  cars  did  not  run, 
and  the  public  put  up  with  the  inconvenience  with  but 
little  grumbling,  hoping  for  a  speedy  settlement  in 
favor  of  the  employees.  Then  the  new  drivers  and 
conductors  were  sent  out  at  long  intervals,  and  were 
jeered  at  from  the  sidewalks  and  insulted  at  the  cor 
ners.  When  more  and  more  cars  began  to  appear,  the 
strikers  could  not  stand  by  in  patience  and  see  new 
comers  snatching  the  bread  out  of  their  mouths.  The 
green  hands  were  stoned  at  first  from  a  distance  ;  then 


272  A   CONFIDENT  TO-MOKROW 

they  were  knocked  off  the  platforms  and  kicked  and 
beaten.  After  a  long  delay  the  city  authorities  granted 
police  protection  to  the  new  men,  and  two  and  three 
and  four  officers  rode  on  every  car  that  went  out  of 
the  stables.  As  the  number  of  cars  increased,  so  did 
the  animosity  of  the  men  who  had  left  the  company's 
employ ;  and  in  their  overt  acts  they  were  joined  by  all 
the  roughs  and  toughs  that  lurk  in  the  holes  and  cor 
ners  of  a  city  nowadays,  ready  always  to  break  the  law, 
with  no  choice  as  to  the  law  they  are  ready  to  break. 
Before  the  end  of  the  second  week  of  the  strike  there 
had  been  five  deaths  by  violence ;  one  of  these  was 
charged  against  the  police,  and  four  against  the  strik 
ers,  or  those  acting  in  their  behalf.  The  sympathies 
of  the  public  changed  about ;  the  National  Guard  was 
ordered  out,  and  everybody  who  was  familiar  with  the 
course  of  similar  contests  knew  that  the  end  was  near 
and  that  the  strikers  would  have  to  accept  the  inev 
itable. 

Sartain  was  keenly  interested  in  the  struggle.  He 
investigated  personally,  and  satisfied  himself  that  the 
conduct  of  the  company  had  been  indefensible,  and 
that  the  claims  of  the  men,  although  overstated  by 
them,  were  supported  by  the  facts.  He  wrote  two  edi 
torial  articles  for  the  next  number  of  Manhattan.  One 
called  for  a  special  committee  from  the  Legislature  at 
Albany  to  investigate  the  actual  cost  of  the  street-rail 
roads,  as  a  basis  for  their  future  expropriation  by  the 
city,  the  grantor  of  the  franchises  which  made  them 
valuable.  The  other  was  a  declaration  of  the  suprem 
acy  of  the  law,  and  an  assertion  that  order  must  be 
maintained  at  any  cost;  it  justified  the  use  of  the 
police  and  the  militia  to  protect  the  property  and  the 


A   CONFIDENT  TO-MORROW  273 

new  employees  of  the  company  ;  and  it  urged  the 
strikers  to  refrain  from  the  outrages  which  could  bring 
only  discredit  upon  their  cause. 

Manhattan  was  published  on  Thursday  morning,  and 
it  went  to  press  the  day  before.  Sartain  was  methodi 
cal  and  regular ;  he  tried  to  complete  the  make-up  as 
early  as  he  could  on  Wednesday  morning,  and  gener 
ally  he  managed  to  order  the  paper  to  press  before 
noon.  He  had  done  so  on  the  day  when  he  had  made 
up  Manhattan  with  the  articles  inspired  by  the  street 
car  strike;  but  when  he  returned  from  his  luncheon  he 
found  Dircks  awaiting  him  in  conversation  with  Truax. 

"  I'm  very  glad  you've  come  back  at  last,  Frank," 
cried  the  publisher.  "I'm.  trying  to  get  Mr.  Dircks 
here  to  listen  to  reason." 

"  What's  the  matter  ?"  Sartain  asked. 

"  He  wants  us  to  back  up  those  rioters,"  Truax  ex 
plained  ;  "to  stick  to  them  through  thick  and  thin, 
even  if  they  are  killing  people  every  day." 

"  Well,"  returned  the  editor,  "  what  did  you  say  to 
that  ?" 

"  I  was  telling  him  that  it's  no  good  our  supporting 
the  strikers,"  Truax  went  on.  "  There's  no  money 
in  that  for  us,  is  there  ?  They  won't  buy  a  copy,  no 
matter  how  much  we  praise  them.  Manhattan  is  a 
ten-cent  paper,  and  car-drivers  have  no  use  for  it." 

"  I  didn't  know  we  had  this  paper  just  to  praise 
people  who  had  ten  cents  to  buy  it,"  said  Dircks,  with 
feeling.  "I  thought  we  had  this  paper  to  help  the 
poor  man." 

Sartain  saw  that  the  old  man  was  excited,  as  though 
the  restlessness  of  the  past  few  weeks  had  now  corne 
to  a  climax.  The  large  hairy  hand  grasped  the  um- 

18 


274  A   CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW 

brella  with  fingers  that  opened  and  shut  nervously. 
The  white  of  the  old  man's  eyes  seemed  whiter  than 
ever  before,  and  the  pupils  were  blacker  and  more 
fiery.  The  protruding  thatch  of  the  great  eyebrows 
came  down  low  as  he  bent  his  penetrating  gaze  on  the 
publisher  and  then  on  the  editor. 

"  That's  what  I  thought,  too,"  Sartain  replied ; 
"Manhattan  is  to  tell  the  truth  and  shame  the  devil. 
It  is  to  stand  up  for  the  down-trodden,  and  it  is  to 
denounce  the  grasping  wickedness  of  the  fraudulent 
money-makers.  But  it  is  to  be  honest  to  its  own  con 
victions  first  of  all,  isn't  it  ?  It  is  to  be  honest  with 
itself." 

Dircks  listened  to  him  in  silence,  only  to  repeat, 
"  Honest  ?  Honest  ?  What  do  you  mean  by  honest  ?" 

"  I  mean  that  we  must  be  as  fair  to  the  rich  man  as 
the  poor  man/'  Sartain  returned.  "What  is  sauce  for 
the  goose  ought  to  be  sauce  for  the  gander,  oughtn't 
it  ?  If  we  attack  the  robber  barons  because  they  set 
themselves  above  the  law,  we  must  also  call  the  strik 
ers  to  order  when  they  put  themselves  outside  the  law. 
That's  fair,  isn't  it  ?" 

"  What's  fair  ?"  asked  Dircks,  raising  his  voice. 
' '  For  the  soldiers  to  shoot  a  man  down  in  the  street  ?" 

"  But  the  man  would  not  be  shot,"  urged  Sartain, 
"if  he  were  not  engaged  in  assaulting  another  man." 

"Another  man?"  Dircks  retorted.  "Do  you  call 
a  scab  a  man  ?  It's  a  scab  he's  kicking.  No  decent 
man  would  be  a  scab,  would  he  ?" 

"A  decent  man  may  be  so  desperately  hard  up  that 
he  is  ready  to  do  anything  to  get  bread  for  his  chil 
dren,"  Sartain  answered. 

"The  fellow  that's  willing  to  keep  another  man's 


A   CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW  275 

job/'  said  Dircks,  shrilly,  "he's  too  good  to  be  kicked  ; 
he  ought  to  be  killed;  he  deserves  all  he  gets  !" 

Sartain  was  taken  aback  by  this  extreme  vehemence. 

"But,  Mr.  Dircks,"  he  responded,  "this  is  a  free 
country,  after  all,  and  a  man  has  a  right  to  work  for 
low  wages  if  he  chooses.  If  he  would  sooner  be  paid 
badly  than  not  paid  at  all,  I  don't  see  what  we  can 
do.  As  fast  as  we  can  we've  got  to  change  the  con 
ditions  that  allow  some  men  to  roll  in  riches  while 
other  men  are  let  down  to  the  starvation  level.  But 
until  we  can  advance  civilization  that  far,  I  don't  see 
what  right  we  have  to  prevent  any  man's  working  for 
any  wages  he  is  willing  to  accept.  These  strikers  say 
that  they  can't  live  on  what  they  are  getting,  and  they 
quit :  that's  all  right.  These  other  men  say  that  they 
are  very  glad  to  take  what  the  strikers  reject ;  that's 
a  pity  ;  but  we  can't  interfere,  can  we  ?" 

The  old  man  had  listened  to  Sartain  impatiently, 
and  now  he  broke  forth  strenuously  :  "We  don't  need 
to  interfere.  We  got  only  to  keep  our  hands  off.  The 
strikers,  they'll  settle  the  scabs  quick  enough,  if  we 
let  'em  alone  !" 

"  But  surely  you  would  not  allow  men  to  be  mur 
dered  in  the  street,  would  you  ?"  cried  the  editor. 

"There  wouldn't  be  any  murdering  if  the  police 
wa'n't  there,"  the  old  man  answered.  "  There  ain't  a 
scab  would  dare  to  come  out." 

"  It  seems  to  me  the  scabs  have  rights,  too,"  Sartain 
urged.  "  They  are  men,  after  all ;  they  have  wives 
and  children,  and — " 

"  Then  why  don't  they  let  another  man's  job  alone  ?" 
interrupted  Dircks.  "  That's  easy  enough,  ain't  it  ? 
I  know  it's  hard  for  the  man  whose  job  is  taken  away. 


276  A   CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW 

You  don't  know.  I  do.  Yon  'ain't  gone  through  that. 
I  have.  You  'ain't  seen  your  women  folks  hungry.  I 
have.  You  don't  know." 

"No/'  admitted  Sartain.  "I  have  had  no  personal 
experience.  No  doubt,  it  is  hard — 

"Hard?"  broke  in  Dircks.  "Hard?  I  saw  my 
wife  die  !  She  died  because  I  didn't  have  money ! 
That  would  have  saved  her  life,  the  doctor  said.  I 
hadn't  got  it.  Why  should  other  men  have  money  to 
buy  the  lives  of  their  wives  and  their  children,  and  I 
not  have  it  ?  That's  what  I  want  to  know.  She  died, 
and  money  would  have  saved  her,  and  I  knew  it,  and 
she  knew  it.  If  I  could  have  stolen  it,  of  course  I'd 
done  it ;  but  I  hadn't  the  chance  then.  When  she 
wanted  what  money  could  buy,  there  wa'n't  nobody  had 
a  better  right  to  it  than  she  had.  That's  what  I  say  ! 
And  when  she  died,  because  I  couldn't  get  money  to 
take  her  South,  then  I  quit  praying.  What  good  was 
God  to  me  ?  He  let  my  wife  die,  and  he  give  men  in 
Wall  Street  millions  and  millions." 

To  this  outbreak  neither  Sartain  nor  Truax  could 
make  any  appropriate  answer.  Sartain  especially  was 
pained  by  the  violence  of  the  old  man's  speech ;  he 
was  thinking  of  Esther. 

After  a  silence  which  seemed  very  long  to  the  two 
others,  Dircks  continued  in  a  little  lower  key,  but  with 
his  voice  still  revealing  his  intense  excitement. 

"  Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do  about  it  ?"  he 
asked. 

"About  what  ?"  returned  Sartain. 

"What  are  you  going  to  say  about  this  shooting 
down  men?"  he  cried.  "What  kind  of  a  piece  are 
you  going  to  put  in  the  paper  ?" 


A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW  277 

"I  have  written  two  articles,"  the  editor  explained; 
"  one  suggesting  that  the  city  should  take  possession 
of  the  road,  paying  only  what  its  real  value  is,  less  the 
value  of  the  franchise  fraudulently  acquired— 

"That's  good/' agreed  Dircks ;  "the  city  ought  to 
take  it,  but  it  hadn't  ought  to  pay  a  cent  for  it!" 

"And  then  I  have  a  second  article,"  said  Sartain, 
"regretting that  the  company  has  refused  to  arbitrate, 
and  declaring  that  it  is  now  the  duty  of  all  good  citi 
zens  to  see  that  order  is  restored  and  the  supremacy 
of  the  law  maintained." 

"That  means  you're  on  the  side  of  the  police  and 
the  soldiers  ?"  asked  Dircks,  slowly  and  in  a  lower 
voice. 

"  If  you  put  it  that  way,"  the  editor  admitted.  "  I 
suppose  that  is  what  it  does  mean.  Manhattan  is  on 
the  side  of  law  and  order — " 

"Law  and  order!"  repeated  Dircks,  with  contempt 
uous  hostility.  "  Law  and  order  !  I  know  what  law 
is.  There  ain't  anybody  knows  that  better  than  I  do. 
When  I  was  in  the  army,  I  was  paymaster  for  a  while, 
and  the  rebels  got  my  money  away  from  me,  and  I 
couldn't  prove  it — and  the  law  said  I  was  a  thief !" 

This,  then,  was  the  mystery  which  had  hung  over 
Dircks's  career  in  the  army ;  this  was  why  he  took  no 
part  in  the  gatherings  of  his  former  comrades  ;  this 
was  why  he  refused  to  talk  over  even  with  his  daugh 
ter  his  experiences  during  the  war.  Ordinarily  Sar- 
tain  was  not  swift  to  see  all  the  bearings  of  a  state 
ment  ;  but  now  he  perceived  at  once  that  he  had  hold 
of  the  cause  of  many  of  the  peculiarities  of  Esther's 
father  hitherto  inexplicable. 

"  It  ain't  no  wonder  I  'ain't  no  high  idea  of  the  law," 


278  A    CONFIDENT   TO-MOEBOW 

Dircks  went  on.  "  I  'ain't  any  better  opinion  of  the 
law  than  the  law  had  of  me.  I  got  no  call  to  fight  for 
the  law.  If  it's  the  law  that's  keeping  the  man  whose 
job  is  taken  away  from  killing  the  scab  that  took  it,  if 
it's  the  law  that's  doing  that  kind  of  dirty  work,  so 
much  the  worse  for  the  law.  It  ain't  the  first  time 
the  law  has  come  down  heavy  on  a  good  man,  nor  the 
second,  neither.  I  know  what  the  law  is.  I  suffered 
the  law  myself." 

Truax  tried  to  relieve  the  tension  by  an  ill-timed 
jest. 

"Mr.  Dircks,"  he  suggested,  "I  guess  you  are  a 
little  like  that  newly  landed  Irishman  who  wanted  to 
know  whether  we  had  a  government  here,  because  if 
we  had  he  was  agin  it." 

"What  has  the  government  done  for  me  ?"  the  old 
man  retorted.  ' '  Wa'n't  it  the  government  made  the 
law  that  called  me  a  thief  ?  Wa'n't  it  the  government 
let  men  in  Wall  Street  have  millions  and  millions  when 
I  hadn't  a  hundred  dollars  to  buy  my  wife's  life?" 

It  seemed  to  Sartain  that  Dircks  was  really  getting 
more  and  more  excited  as  the  discussion  continued,  and 
that  the  sooner  it  could  be  brought  to  an  end  the 
better. 

"  I  am  very  sorry  that  we  don't  agree  better  about 
these  things,"  he  began.  "I  don't  defend  our  present 
social  organization  as  an  ideal  system — I  know  well 
enough  that  it  is  full  of  defects ;  but,  on  the  other 
hand,  I  think  that  progress  is  possible  only  along  legal 
lines,  and — 

"And  you  have  put  a  piece  in  the  paper  saying  the 
police  and  the  soldiers  ought  to  shoot  men  down  in  the 
streets  ?"  Dircks  broke  in.  "  Is  that  printed  yet  ?" 


A   CONFIDENT    TO-MORROW  279 

" No,"  Sartain  answered.  "It  is  not  printed  yet — 
but  I  have  sent  the  forms  to  the  press/' 

"  Then  you  can  stop  it  now  ?"  the  old  man  inquired, 
eagerly. 

"  Yes/'  Sartain  responded.  "I  could  stop  it  now— 
if  I  wished  to  do  so." 

"Will  you  stop  it  ?"  Dircks  asked.  "Will  you  take 
it  out,  and  stand  up  for  the  men  whose  jobs  are  taken 
away  ?" 

"Mr.  Dircks,  I  would  like  to  meet  your  views," 
said  the  young  editor,  slowly  and  seriously.  "  But  I 
can't." 

"  You  can't  ?"  almost  shrieked  Dircks,  rising  to  his 
feet.  "  Why  not  ?" 

"  Because  in  that  article  I  have  said  what  I  thought 
I  ought  to  say,  and  because  I  have  not  changed  my 
opinion  since  I  wrote  it,"  was  the  firm  response. 

The  old  man  stepped  forward.  "  'Tain't  your  money 
that's  been  spent  on  the  paper." 

Sartain  stood  up  and  faced  him. 

"  It  is  your  money,  I  know,"  he  said  ;  "  but  it  was 
clearly  understood  that  I  was  to  be  responsible  for  the 
editorial  opinions." 

"  Then  you  won't  change  it  ?"  the  old  man  asked, 
harshly,  with  his  great  eyes  piercing  the  other  from 
under  his  overhanging  eyebrows. 

"I  can't,"  was  the  young  man's  answer,  as  he  faced 
the  fierce  gaze  of  the  father  of  the  woman  he  loved. 

There  was  silence  while  the  two  men  stood  there 
looking  into  each  other's  eyes. 

"  I  guess  it's  better  to  be  on  the  side  of  the  law 
makers  than  the  law-breakers,"  said  Truax,  again  en- 
deavorino-  to  relieve  the  tension. 


280  A   CONFIDENT  TO-MORROW 

Finally  Sartain  made  a  swift  resolution.  He  swal 
lowed  once  or  twice,  and  then  he  said,  "  The  paper  is 
yours,  Mr.  Dircks — I  don't  deny  it.  So  long  as  I  am 
editor,  I  must  write  what  I  think.  But  if  you  disap 
prove  of  what  I  write,  there  is  no  reason  why  I  should 
be  editor  any  longer.  I  am  ready  to  resign  the  posi 
tion  at  any  time — now,  if  you  wish  it." 

The  old  man  continued  to  look  at  him  while  he  was 
taking  in  this  suggestion  ;  and  there  was  another  si 
lence,  which  Truax  did  not  break. 

"  Resign  ?"  said  Dircks,  at  last.  "  Eesign  ?  What 
for  ?" 

"  So  that  you  can  put  another  editor  in  my  place/' 
Sartain  replied  ;  "  somebody  who  will  be  more  in  ac 
cord  with  you." 

"  'Tain't  no  good  resigning,"  the  old  man  returned. 
"  'Tain't  no  use  of  talking  of  somebody  else.  The  pa 
per's  got  to  stop,  that's  all  !" 

"  Got  to  stop  !"  echoed  both  the  editor  and  the  pub 
lisher. 

"It's  got  to  stop,"  repeated  Dircks.  "That's  what 
I  said." 

"  Why  ?"  asked  Sartain. 

"  Why  ?"  the  old  man  repeated  again,  as  he  picked 
up  his  hat.  "Because  the  money's  all  gone.  That's 
why.  I  can't  pay  after  this  week,  any  way." 

"  What  are  we  to  do  ?"  cried  Truax. 

"  You  do  what  you  did  before  I  started  in,"  Dircks 
returned.  "  You  can't  get  the  police  and  the  soldiers 
to  make  me  pay  out,  week  after  week,  when  I  got  no 
more  money — can  you  ?  You  can't  get  the  law  to  call 
me  a  thief  again,  because  I  quit  when  I  got  through — 
can  you  ?" 


A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORHOW  281 

With  these  pointed  questions  Dircks  made  his  way 
towards  the  door. 

"'  Hold  on  a  minute/'  Sartain  requested. 

"  Well  ?"  said  the  old  man,  halting  on  the  threshold, 
a  pitiful  figure,  so  he  seemed  to  Sartain,  with  the 
clothes  hanging  on  his  tall,  shrunken  frame. 

"  This  is  your  final  word,  then  ?"  the  young  editor 
asked.  "  You  have  uo  more  money  to  spend  on  Man 
hattan,  and  you  want  it  stopped  ?" 

"I  don't  want  it  stopped,"  was  the  answer.  "I 
don't  care  what  you  do  with  it  now.  I'm  through  with 
it.  And  if  I  had  money,  I  wouldn't  put  a  cent  more 
into  a  paper  that  stood  up  for  law." 

"But  there  are  articles  on  hand  that  are  paid  for, 
and  there  are  advertising  accounts  to  be  collected — 
are  there  not  ?"  and  the  editor  appealed  to  the  pub 
lisher. 

'-  Lots  of  "em,"  was  Truax's  prompt  reply. 

'•'  Then  let  me  try  and  sell  the  paper  for  you,"  urged 
Sartain.  "  Perhaps  I  can  get  a  fair  price  for  it.  Per 
haps  I  can  get  you  back  some  of  the  money  you  have 
lost  in  it." 

"I  don't  care  what  you  do  with  it,"  Dircks  an 
swered,  as  he  walked  slowly  out  of  the  office. 

Sartain  and  Truax  looked  at  each  other  in  silence 
for  a  moment,  and  then  the  latter  laughed. 

"  This  is  perfectly  ridiculous,"  he  quoted,  and  then 
laughed  again. 

"  It's  hard  on  you,  old  man,"  said  Sartain,  laying  his 
hand  on  the  other's  shoulder.  "  I  feel  as  if  I  had 
brought  you  East  under  false  pretences." 

"  Don't  you  worry  about  me,"  was  the  answer.  "  I've 
got  nine  lives,  and  I  drop  on  my  feet  every  time.  I 


282  A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORKOW 

didn't  tell  you  before,  bnt  there's  a  new  man  bought 
the  Upper  Ten,  and  he  wants  me  to  join  him.  Of 
course,  I  wasn't  thinking  of  leaving  you,  but  if  Man 
hattan's  going  up,  I  might  as  well  go  over  to  the  Upper 
Ten.  He's  to  clean  out  the  gang  they  have  on  it  now, 
and  make  a  decent  paper  of  it." 

Sartain  could  think  quickly  sometimes.  "Why 
shouldn't  he  buy  Manhattan,  too,  and  consolidate  it 
with  the  Upper  Ten  9"  he  asked. 

"That's  so," said  Truax.  "Why  not?  Shall  I  go 
and  see  him  and  drop  a  hint  or  two  that  perhaps  Man 
hattan  could  be  purchased  ?" 

This  was  agreed  upon,  and  Truax  took  his  hat  at 
once  and  started  off  down-town. 

Sartain  did  not  worry  about  his  own  prospects,  lie 
had  saved  money,  and  he  knew  that  he  had  raised  his 
reputation  as  a  trustworthy  literary  workman.  He  did 
not  believe  it  would  be  long  before  something  would  be 
secured  by  an  energetic  young  man,  who  had  prepared 
a  successful  subscription  book  for  Oarington  &  Com 
pany,  who  had  edited  Manhattan  and  immensely  im 
proved  it,  and  who  had  written  Dust  and  Ashes  and  A 
Wolf  at  the  Door.  Perhaps  he  might  even  join  the 
staff  of  the  reorganized  Upper  Ten.  What  did  depress 
his  spirits  was  the  knowledge  that  Dircks  had  lost  all 
the  money  he  had  in  the  paper  the  young  man  had 
edited.  Sartain  had  done  his  best ;  and  none  the  less 
did  he  feel  in  some  measure  responsible.  He  wished 
he  had  ascertained  before  they  went  into  this  journal 
istic  venture  just  how  much  money  it  was  the  old  man 
had. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE  next  day  Manhattan  appeared  as  usual ;  and 
Truax  reported  to  Sartain  "that  he  thought  he  could 
tempt  the  new  owner  of  the  Upper  Ten  to  make  a  fair 
offer  for  Manhattan  also.  The  editor  and  the  publisher 
determined  to  get  out  the  paper  as  best  they  could 
without  the  money  Dircks  had  habitually  provided. 
Sartain  decided  to  print  a  double  instalment  of  his 
own  serial  every  week  for  the  present,  and,  indeed,  to 
write  the  most  of  the  next  number  himself,  buying 
nothing  from  chance  contributors,  and  so  utilizing  the 
stock  of  articles  on  hand  that  it  would  last  three  or 
four 'weeks.  The  newspapers  had  announced  in  the 
morning  that  the  car-strike  was  virtually  over.  He 
was  glad  to  think  that  there  might  be  no  necessity 
for  him  again  to  comment  upon  it  editorially.  So  far 
as  possible,  he  wished  to  insert  in  Manhattan  nothing 
that  Dircks  would  not  approve  of.  But  he  no  longer 
felt  sure  that  he  could  declare  the  things  in  which  he 
and  the  old  man  were  in  accord.  He  wondered  how 
far  their  apparent  agreement  had  been  due  to  the  fact 
that  Dircks  did  not  formulate  his  opinions,  but  con 
tented  himself  with  accepting  those  advanced  by  the 
future  editor.  Yet  it  struck  him  as  likely  also  that 
the  divergence  between  them  had  been  growing  wider 
and  wider  as  Dircks  had  brooded  on  his  wrongs  and  as 


284  A   CONFIDENT  TO-MORROW 

he  had  hardened  and  stiffened  in  his  old  age,  while 
Sartain  knew  himself  to  be  but  a  young  man,  gaining 
in  wisdom  with  experience,  already  aware  that  much  of 
his  boyish  iconoclasm  was  rather  foolish,  and  willing 
now  to  admit  that  the  world  cannot  be  remade  at  a 
moment's  notice.  He  saw  many  abuses  to  be  assaulted, 
and  he  was  as  willing  as  ever  to  lead  a  charge  against 
them,  for  he  was  unfailingly  hopeful.  The  old  man 
had  lived  his  life  almost  to  the  end,  and  hope  had 
been  buffeted  out  of  him. 

The  more  Sartain  reflected  the  more  he  thought  it 
likely  that  Manhattan  had  been  supported  by  Esther's 
inheritance  from  her  grandmother ;  and  he  wondered 
how  it  was  that  he  had  not  suspected  this  at  first.  He 
believed  that  the  old  man,  having  no  respect  for  pri 
vate  property,  would  unhesitatingly  make  use  of  any 
money  which  might  be  under  his  control.  Thinking 
that  wealth  ought  to  belong  to  him  who  needs  it 
at  the  moment,  Dircks  would  attempt  no  conceal 
ment  ;  he  would  help  himself  to  his  daughter's  fort 
une  frankly,  almost  openly,  and  with  no  sense  of  wrong 
doing. 

Sartain  was  inclined  to  think  that  Esther  would  bear 
the  loss  with  perfect  fortitude.  She  had  the  slim 
strength  of  a  Toledo  blade,  and  its  suppleness.  He  re 
called  Johnny's  nickname  for  her,  "Miss  Cartilage," 
and  dismissed  it  as  absurdly  inapplicable.  She  had 
the  flame  of  her  father,  for  all  that  she  might  seem 
fragile  and  ethereal.  He  doubted  even  whether  she 
would  feel  any  resentment  towards  the  old  man,  and 
whether,  indeed,  she  would  not  be  inclined  to  accept 
his  views  as  to  the  duties  and  rights  of  guardians. 

He  could  not  but  feel  his  own  unworthiness  to  as- 


A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW  285 

pire  towards  a  maiden  so  delicate,  so  pure,  so  far  above 
him.  He  could  not  but  confess  his  own  presumption 
in  thinking  it  possible  that  she  should  ever  be  taken 
with  him.  He  could  not  but  acknowledge  that  he  had 
really  nothing  to  offer  her,  nothing  to  tempt  her  with 
—nothing  except  his  love.  His  love  was  so  intense 
that  as  he  sat  there  in  the  little  office  at  the  top  of  the 
shabby  old  building  in  Union  Square,  as  he  looked  out 
on  the  bare  trees  in  the  oval  park,  just  making  ready 
to  bud  forth,  he  longed  for  her  until  his  yearning  was 
almost  unbearable. 

Then  he  came  to  a  solemn  resolution.  He  would 
tell  her  that  he  loved  her,  and  he  would  tell  her  the 
very  first  time  he  saw  her.  She  might  refuse  him — 
she  would  refuse  him,  no  doubt — but  at  least  he  would 
have  let  her  know  what  his  feelings  towards  her  were. 
To  tell  her  would  be  an  immense  relief  to  him,  what 
ever  her  answer  might  be ;  and  he  reminded  himself 
that  there  could  be  but  little  uncertainty  about  it. 
Young  as  he  was,  and  hopeful,  he  had  never  dared  to 
hope  that  Esther  was  interested  in  him. 

In  the  afternoon  he  left  the  office  early  and  walked 
up -town.  He  held  Vivian  to  be  a  friend  of  good 
counsel ;  and  he  thought  it  possible  that  the  elder 
novelist  might  be  able  to  suggest  another  possible  pur 
chaser  for  Manhattan. 

But  when  he  had  rung  at  the  door  of  the  apartment, 
the  white-capped  maid  told  him  that  Mr.  Vivian  and 
all  three  of  the  young  ladies  had  gone  for  a  drive. 
Was  there  any  message  Mr.  Sartain  might  wish  to 
leave  ?  Mr.  Sartain  left  word  that  he  wanted  a  few 
minutes'  conversation  with  Mr.  Vivian,  and  that  he 
would  call  again  the  next  afternoon. 


286  A   CONFIDENT  TO-MORROW 

When  the  elevator  came  up  to  take  him  down,  a 
young  lady  stepped  out.  It  was  Esther  Dircks. 

"Oh!"  she  cried.  "How  are  you,  Mr.  Sartain  ?" 
and  a  little  blush  flowered  in  her  cheeks  and  perished. 
"Are  Dora  and  Theo  in,  do  you  know  ?" 

"I  do  know  they  are  not  in,"  he  answered,  "for  I 
have  just  been  told  that  Mr.  Vivian  and  all  three  of 
his  daughters  have  gone  out  driving." 

"Isn't  that  just  like  them?"  she  asked,  with  her 
little  laugh,  so  clear,  so  fine,  and  so  fascinating. 
"They  had  asked  me  to  come  up  for  a  cup  of  tea  and 
to  talk  over  their  plans  for  next  summer." 

"  Going  down  ?"  called  out  the  elevator-boy,  seeing 
them  absorbed  in  their  interest  in  each  other. 

As  Sartain  followed  her  into  the  hanging  cage,  a 
wave  of  memory  reminded  him  that  the  first  time  he 
had  seen  her  was  in  that  same  elevator,  nearly  a  year 
and  a  half  ago  ;  and  now  he  was  going  to  tell  her  that 
he  loved  her. 

The  boy  slammed  the  door  and  pulled  the  rope  and 
they  started  downward.  Sartain  asked  if  it  was  not 
very  early  to  be  making  plans  for  the  summer,  when 
the  winter  had  scarcely  gone. 

"Ah,  but  the  spring  has  come  already,  I  think," 
she  returned ;  "  don't  you  ?  The  trees  in  the  Park 
look  as  if  they  were  in  a  hurry  to  get  into  their  new 
suits." 

"  I  haven't  been  into  Central  Park  for  three  or  four 
months,"  he  answered. 

"Haven't  you?"  she  returned.  "Then  you  don't 
know  what  you  miss.  I  always  try  to  get  two  or  three 
good  long  walks  in  the  Park  every  week.  But  I've 
only  had  one  this  week,  so  far." 


A    CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW  287 

As  the  elevator  came  to  a  stop  Sartain  seized  the  op 
portunity. 

"Why  not  come  for  another  one  now  ?"  he  asked. 
"  That  is,  if  I  am  not  an  intruder  ?  If  you  would  not 
prefer  to  walk  alone  ?" 

"  I  never  walk  alone  if  I  can  help  it,"  she  responded. 
"  I  come  here  and  get  Dora  or  Theo  or  even  Johnny." 

'•And  failing  them  to-day  ?"  he  interrogated,  hold 
ing  open  the  door  of  the  house  for  her  to  pass  out. 

"Failing  them,"  she  repeated.,  smiling,  "I  shall  be 
pleased  to  accept  your  company." 

They  crossed  Fifty-ninth  Street  and  skirted  the  Park 
until  they  came  to  an  entrance  of  which  they  could 
avail  themselves.  The  broad  path  was  asphalted,  but 
this  pavement  was  cracked  and  broken  here  and  there. 
It  sloped  rapidly  down  to  a  brick  tunnel,  which  ran 
under  one  of  the  ample  driveways.  Then  it  rose  again, 
and  it  narrowed  a  little  as  it  came  to  a  graceful  bridge 
which  curved  over  the  bridle-path.  The  walk  then 
bent  around  the  edge  of  a  wide  meadow  where  the  grass 
was  greening  again.  On  the  shrubbery  that  fringed 
the  path  the  buds  were  already  beginning  to  peep  out 
timidly  ;  the  sap  was  rising  once  more  in  the  bare  trees 
that  branched  above  them  ;  and  on  all  sides  the  signs 
of  spring  were  abundant,  as  they  often  are  in  K"ew  York 
in  the  first  week  in  April. 

The  day  itself  was  doubtful;  in  the  morning  the  sun 
had  come  out  and  shone  brightly  for  an  hour  or  two, 
but  now,  in  the  afternoon,  the  sky  had  grayed  over  as 
though  making  ready  for  rain. 

Sartain  walked  by  the  side  of  Esther,  saying  little  or 
nothing,  and  leaving  her  to  bear  the  burden  of  the  talk. 
He  was  thinking  of  what  he  was  going  to  tell  her  be- 


288  A   CONFIDENT  TO-MOHROW 

fore  they  parted.  He  meant  to  speak  as  soon  as  an 
occasion  offered ;  and  he  intended  to  make  an  occa 
sion,  if  need  be.  In  the  meantime,  merely  to  be  with 
her  was  a  joy  to  him,  to  listen  to  her  gentle  voice,  to 
watch  her  graceful  movements.  In  trying  to  find 
words  to  fit  her,  he  had  found  "  bird-like  motion  "  and 
"  flower-like  face  " ;  and  he  likened  her  now  to  a  glanc 
ing  humming-bird  and  again  to  some  rare  orchid,  col 
orless  almost,  delicate,  exquisite,  priceless. 

As  he  said  little  she  let  the  conversation  drop,  and 
they  walked  along  side  by  side  in  silence  for  a  hundred 
yards  or  more.  At  last  she  looked  up  at  him  and 
asked  if  he  did  not  think  her  father  was  looking 
wretchedly. 

"  I  never  saw  him  as  worn  as  he  was  last  night  when 
he  came  home  to  dinner,"  she  said. 

Sartain  knew  that  this  was  probably  caused  by  the 
controversy  in  the  office  of  Manhattan.  "  I  saw  him 
yesterday,"  he  admitted,  "and  I  must  say  he  seemed 
to  me  not  so  easy  in  his  mind  as  he  used  to  be — not  so 
placid,  I  mean." 

"That's  just  it,"  she  agreed.  "He  used  to  be  so 
calm  always  —  or,  at  least,  it  was  very  rarely  that  he 
ever  broke  out  against  wickedness  and  injustice  as  he 
has  been  doing  so  often  lately." 

The  young  man  wondered  whether  he  was  right  in 
guessing  that  her  father  had  wasted  her  inheritance ; 
he  wondered  also  whether  she  suspected  it. 

"  Has  he  had  anything  special  to  worry  him  lately  ?" 
he  asked. 

"  I  suppose  he  has/'  she  answered ;  "  indeed,  I  know 
he  has.  He  explained  to  me  only  last  night  that  the 
money  my  grandmother  left  me — I  told  you  about  it, 


A   CONFIDENT  TO-MORROW  289 

didn't  I  ? — well,  it  has  been  lost.  It  wasn't  very  much, 
but  what  there  was  of  it  was  badly  invested,  so  it 
seems,  and  it's  all  gone  now.  That  must  be  what  has 
been  making  father  so  restless  lately." 

She  was  truly  her  father's  daughter,  Sartain  thought, 
in  her  disregard  of  money.  She  had  never  really  en 
joyed  her  fortune ;  now  that  it  had  departed  she 
seemed  to  regret  the  annoyance  this  had  caused  her 
father  rather  than  the  loss  itself. 

A  sudden  impulse  moved  him  that  he  could  not  af 
terwards  explain. 

"  Do  you  know  what  it  was  your  money  was  in 
vested  in  ?"  he  asked.  "  Have  you  any  idea  how  it 
was  lost  ?" 

"  No,"  she  answered.  "  Father  didn't  think  to  tell 
me.  It's  gone,  he  said,  and  that's  all  I  know." 

"  It  has  been  spent  in  trying  to  establish  Manhat 
tan,"  he  went  on. 

She  looked  up  at  him  questioningly. 

"  Your  father  heard  me  describe  the  kind  of  a  paper 
we  needed  here  in  New  York,"  he  explained,  "and  so 
he  bought  Manhattan  for  me  to  edit." 

"  And  now  it  will  stop  and  you  will  lose  your  place  ?" 
she  asked.  "  Oh,  I'm  so  sorry." 

"  I  can  find  something  else  easily  enough,"  he  as 
sured  her.  "  But  I  am  put  out  that  it  is  I  who  have 
lost  all  your  money  for  you." 

"  You  must  not  mind  that,"  she  responded.  "  I 
don't  believe  I  should  ever  have  been  able  to  keep  it, 
nor  father  either  ;  we  shouldn't  know  what  to  do  with 
money  if  we  had  it,  really." 

"And  to  think  that  all  these  months  you  have  been 
my  boss,"  he  said,  "and  I  didn't  know  it." 


290  A   CONFIDENT  TO-HOEROW 

"  I  did  not  know  it  either,"  she  returned. 

"  And  all  these  months  I  have  been  working  for 
you,"  he  continued.  Then  he  held  himself  in. 

They  were  approaching  a  part  of  the  Park  where 
there  was  less  privacy.  A  little  boy  and  a  little  girl 
were  playing  together  where  the  foot-path  ran  along 
side  the  carriage-road ;  they  were  pretending  to  keep 
house.  The  little  girl's  nurse  was  standing  with  her 
back  to  the  children,  turning  up  her  pert  and  pretty 
face  to  the  gray-coated  mounted  policeman  who  was 
bending  forward  to  chaff  with  her.  Half  a  dozen  bi 
cyclers  flashed  past  gayly — three  men  and  three  girls — 
trailing  light  laughter  behind  them.  Along  the  bridle 
path,  riding  slowly  and  looking  into  each  other's  eyes, 
came  a  young  man  and  a  young  woman ;  she  had  a 
figure  that  filled  out  the  simple  habit,  and  she  knew 
that  she  looked  well  on  horseback ;  he  gazed  into  her 
eyes  as  though  he  thought  she  would  look  well  under 
all  circumstances  ;  a  smug  and  stolid  groom  mounted 
on  a  rotund  cob  followed  at  a  discreet  distance. 

While  Esther  and  Sartain  were  walking  side  by  side, 
with  resolution  urging  him  on,  there  was  an  unexpect 
ed  spurtle  of  rain  just  as  the  sun  broke  out  on  the 
western  sky.  People  scattered  in  every  direction  seek 
ing  shelter ;  children  scurried  to  their  nurses ;  the 
men  and  women  on  horseback  broke  into  a  canter  to 
get  under  the  cover  of  a  bridge. 

"  It  won't  last  long,  I  think,"  said  Sartain,  "  but  it 
will  spoil  your  bonnet." 

"  Oh,  this  old  hat  can't  be  damaged,"  she  responded, 
cheerfully. 

As  they  turned  a  corner  and  passed  under  a  shade- 
less  arbor,  they  could  see  that  the  path  dipped  down 


A   CONFIDENT   TO-MOKKOW  291 

and  under  the  main  road.  Just  then  the  rain  re 
doubled. 

"  There's  a  good  place,"  cried  he,  "under  the  arch 
there.  Shall  we  run  for  it  ?" 

"  Perhaps  it  wouldn't  be  a  bad  idea/'  she  yielded. 

She  picked  up  her  skirts  and  skimmed  along  light 
ly.  He  kept  at  her  side,  thinking  all  at  once  of  Paul 
and  Virginia,  and  wishing  that  he  could  shield  her 
with  a  huge  banana-leaf. 

They  came  to  the  mouth  of  the  tunnel,  breathless. 

"  That  Avas  fun,  wasn't  it  ?"  she  asked.  "  I  do  love 
to  be  in  the  rain,  don't  you  ?" 

"  I  love  to  be  anywhere  that  you  are,"  he  answered, 
but  at  that  moment  a  heavy  carriage  rumbled  over 
head,  and  he  doubted  if  she  had  heard  him. 

They  had  the  archway  all  to  themselves,  except  for 
two  or  three  little  children  who  were  huddled  together 
at  the  other  end,  impatient  to  be  away  again. 

Now  that  the  time  had  come  at  last,  Sartain  could 
not  find  his  tongue.  He  straightened  himself,  and 
he  took  a  long  breath ;  he  pulled  at  the  point  of  his 
beard,  twisting  it  nervously. 

Again  a  vehicle  of  some  sort  rolled  over  their  heads 
with  a  sound  like  the  muttering  of  distant  thunder. 

Esther  looked  up  at  him,  gravely.  There  was  more 
color  on  her  cheeks  than  usual,  but  he  set  this  down 
to  her  sharp  run. 

"  Mr.  Sartain,"  she  began,  "  if  Manhattan  is  going 
to  stop,  what  will  become  of  the  story — the  serial,  I 
mean — A  Wolf  at  the  Door  9" 

"It,  will  have  to  stop,  too,  probably,"  he  answered. 
"But  it  will  be  published  as  a  book,  sooner  or  later." 

"  I'm  so  glad  !"  she  returned. 


292  A   CONFIDENT  TO-MOBBOW 

"  Why  ?"  he  asked. 

"Why?"  she  repeated.  "  Oh,  I  don't  know.  Be 
cause  it  interested  me,  I  suppose." 

Sartain  wondered  if  she  had  recognized  herself  in 
the  heroine.  But  before  he  could  frame  his  question, 
she  went  on  : 

"  Do  you  know  who  is  writing  it  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Who  is  writing  what  ?"  he  inquired,  in  turn. 

"Who  is  the  author  of  A  Wolf  at  the  Door?"  she 
explained.  "  I  thought  that  editors  always  knew  who 
the  authors  were  of  the  things  they  published  ?" 

"Don't  you  know  who  wrote  that  story  ?"  he  asked, 
in  amazement. 

"Of  course  I  don't,"  she  answered.  "  How  should 
I  know  ?" 

He  looked  at  her  in  astonishment. 

"  You  mustn't  stare  at  me  like  that,"  she  said.  "  It 
may  be  very  ignorant  of  me,  but  I've  no  idea  who 
'S.Francis 'is." 

Then  Sartain  perceived  how  it  was  that  she  was  not 
aware  of  his  authorship. 

"  The  Francis  is  for  Frank,"  he  said,  "  and  the  S. 
stands  for  Sartain." 

The  color  deepened  on  her  cheek,  and  her  eyes  were 
lowered. 

"  I  did  not  know  that,"  she  responded. 

"  And  now  you  know  it,"  he  went  on,  seizing  the 
opportunity,  "you  will  forgive  me  for  having  taken 
you  for  my  heroine.  I  know  it  was  a  great  liberty,  but 
I  could  not  help  it — really,  I  couldn't." 

"  You  couldn't  help  it  ?"  she  repeated.  "  Why  not  ?" 
But  she  did  not  raise  her  eyes. 

"  Because  I  loved  you  so  much  that  you  were  the 


A   CONFIDENT  TO-MORHOW  293 

only  woman  I  could  think  of  at  all,"  he  answered.  "  I 
had  to  put  you  in  the  book.  I  couldn't  have  kept  you 
out  if  I  had  tried — and  I  wouldn't  try/' 

He  paused ;  he  thought  that  he  saw  her  tremble  a 
little. 

"  I  do  love  you,"  he  went  on.  "  I  have  loved  you 
ever  since  that  first  day  I  saw  you  at  Mr.  Vivian's, 
when  you  were  on  the  table  as  Cinderella.  I  could  not 
keep  it  to  myself  any  longer.  Now  you  know." 

"  Yes,"  she  repeated.  "  Now  I  know  ;"  and  she 
looked  at  him  again. 

He  caught  hope  from  this  glance. 

"  I  know  I  am  not  worthy  of  you,"  he  urged  ;  " but 
if  you  could  only  care  for  me  a  little — if  it  were  ever 
so  little  at  first — " 

She  dropped  her  eyes  once  more  and  her  color  deep 
ened  as  she  said,  "I  think  I  do  care  now — a  little." 

They  did  not  know  how  long  they  sat  there  under 
the  bridge,  with  the  carriages  rumbling  above  them. 
The  flurry  of  rain  was  over  soon,  and  the  setting  sun 
shone  out  strong  and  red ;  the  children  at  the  other 
end  of  the  tunnel  ran  out  again  to  play,  and  went 
home  at  last ;  and  still  the  young  lovers  lingered. 

When  they  did  emerge  once  more  into  the  full  light 
of  day,  the  afternoon  was  almost  spent.  As  they  were 
slowly  retracing  their  steps  up  the  incline  they  had 
swiftly  run  down  in  the  rain,  they  heard  the  winding 
of  a  horn.  Over  the  bridge,  high  above  them,  a  four-in- 
hand  coach  rolled  past,  with  a  gay  company  filling  its 
seats — Mr.  Vivian,  his  daughters,  and  two  or  three  more. 
Sartain  and  Esther  looked  up,  and  Johnny  looked  down 
and  saw  them  standing  there,  hand  in  hand. 


CHAPTER 


IT  was  the  beginning  of  April  that  Prank  Sartain 
told  Esther  Dircks  he  loved  her,  and  it  was  at  the  end 
of  May  that  they  were  married.  They  had  known  each 
other  for  eighteen  months,  and  when  they  discovered 
each  the  love  of  the  other,  they  saw  no  reason  for  a 
longer  engagement.  There  was  even  a  motive  for 
haste  to  be  found  in  the  condition  of  her  father's 
health. 

Dircks  had  made  no  protest  against  his  daughter's 
engagement,  and  apparently  he  bore  no  malice  against 
Sartain.  He  was  getting  feebler  ;  his  tall  frame  was 
bent  now,  and  his  broad  hands  often  twitched  ner^ 
vously.  It  was  as  though  the  flame  had  burned  out 
and  left  the  old  man  almost  without  interest  in  life. 
He  Avas  no  longer  able  to  retouch  a  block  with  his  old 
skill,  and  it  was  not  likely  that  he  could  provide  for 
his  own  support.  Fortunately  Sartain  and  Truax  were 
able  finally  to  sell  Manhattan  to  the  new  owner  of  the 
Upper  Ten  on  advantageous  terms;  and  by  Esther's 
wish  the  money  received  was  invested  so  that  it  would 
be  a  reserve  fund  in  case  Dircks  was  wholly  unable  to 
earn  his  living. 

Fortunately,  also,  Sartain  stepped  promptly  into  an 
other  situation.  The  senior  partner  of  the  house  that 
had  published  Dust  and  Ashes  had  liked  the  way  in 


A   CONFIDENT  TO-MOHROW  295 

which  the  young  author  had  prepared  that  volume  for 
the  press,  and  the  practical  suggestions  he  had  made 
for  the  design,  which  served  as  a  cover-stamp  and  also 
as  a  poster.  He  told  Sartain  that  he  would  issue  A 
Wolf  at  the  Door  on  the  same  terms  as  the  earlier  story ; 
and  that  there  having  been  no  profit  in  Dust  and  Ashes 
did  not  prejudice  him  against  the  later  tale.  And  he 
did  more  than  agree  to  publish  the  young  man's  second 
book.  When  a  little  old  gentleman  died  about  the  first 
of  May,  who  had  advised  them  for  at  least  two  genera 
tions  of  the  firm,  he  asked  Vivian  if  Sartain  would  not 
be  a  good  man  to  attach  permanently  to  the  fortunes 
of  the  house.  Vivian  approved  of  the  suggestion  heart 
ily;  and  the  publishers  thereupon  offered  Sartain  a 
position  with  a  good  salary  and  with  full  liberty  to 
employ  his  leisure  in  literature. 

Thus  it  was  that  Sartain  felt  his  future  assured 
when  he  met  Esther  at  the  altar  of  the  Little  Church 
Down  the  Street.  He  had  asked  Truax  to  be  his  best 
man,  and  Vivian's  three  daughters  were  the  brides 
maids. 

After  the  ceremony,  Vivian  invited  them  all  to 
luncheon  in  his  ample  apartments — the  bride  and  her 
father,  the  groom  and  his  best  man,  and  half  a  dozen 
other  stray  young  fellows.  At  table  Adams  was  a 
little  moody  now  and  then,  and  when  he  aroused  him 
self  his  gayety  was  a  little  factitious.  Sartain  knew 
that  the  news  of  Esther's  engagement  had  been  a 
sudden  shock  to  the  artist ;  but  now  it  seemed  to  the 
man  who  had  won  that  the  man  who  had  lost  was  bear 
ing  the  blow  bravely.  It  struck  him  also  that  the 
twins,  often  so  personal  in  their  passages  of  arms  with 
Adams,  were  less  boisterous  than  usual,  and  that  they 


296  A    CONFIDENT   TO-MOKHOW 

were  even  considerate,  not  to  say  sympathetic,  in  their 
attitude  towards  the  disappointed  lover.  The  father 
of  the  twins  had  been  so  cordial  in  his  congratulations 
that  Sartain  doubted  whether  he  had  not  been  alto 
gether  wrong  in  thinking  that  Vivian  was  also  in  love 
with  Esther,  all  unconscious  as  he  believed  this  affec 
tion  to  be. 

At  last  the  repast  came  to  an  end,  and  Sartain  was 
able  to  carry  away  his  bride.  She  clung  to  her  father 
and  wept  over  him  for  a  minute,  and  then  suffered 
herself  to  be  separated  from  him.  Sartain  was  wait 
ing  for  her  at  the  door  of  the  elevator.  Down-stairs, 
on  the  sidewalk,  Johnny  was  the  last  to  kiss  her  good 
bye,  just  before  she  stepped  into  the  carriage,  after 
shaking  off  the  rice  plentifully  besprinkled  over  her. 
As  the  bride  and  groom  drove  off  the  twins  leaned  out 
of  the  windows  of  the  apartment,  and  cast  after  them 
half  a  dozen  old  ball  slippers. 

The  wedding  trip  was  to  be  limited  to  a  fortnight, 
as  Sartain  had  to  be  back  in  New  York  by  the  middle 
of  June,  and  the  young  couple  were  going  to  spend 
their  two  weeks  in  Philadelphia,  Baltimore,  and  Wash 
ington,  cities  that  neither  of  them  had  seen. 

When  they  came  out  on  the  upper  deck  of  the  ferry 
boat,  Sartain  drew  a  long  breath  of  exultation.  Now 
at  last  he  was  bearing  Esther  away  from  everybody 
to  have  her  all  to  himself.  He  gazed  down  at  her 
with  abounding  joy,  and  she  returned  the  look  of 
love. 

He  told  her  how  he  had  come  to  New  York,  with  what 
hopes  and  fears,  and  how  he  had  met  his  fate  that  very 
first  day  in  the  great  city.  It  was  love  at  first  sight, 
if  ever  there  were  a  case  ;  and  he  would  never  again 


A   CONFIDENT   TO-MORROW  297 

doubt  the  possibility.  Then  he  asked  her  if  she  could 
recall  the  occasion  when  she  began  to  feel  any  interest 
in  him  ;  and,  to  his  surprise  and  delight,  she  confessed 
that  it  was  also  on  the  first  day  they  had  met. 

"I  don't  suppose  I  really  loved  you  then/'  she  ex 
plained,  shyly  ;  "not  as  I  do  now — of  course  not.  But 
I  was  strangely  drawn  to  you,  and  I  didn't  think  that 
you  thought  of  me  at  all  I" 

"But  I  did  !"  he  protested. 

"You  didn't  show  it,"  she  rejoined. 

"I  didn't  think  of  anybody  else,"  he  asserted. 

"  You  weren't  half  as  attentive  to  me  as  you  were  to 
Johnny,"  she  returned. 

"But  I  wasn't  afraid  of  her,"  he  declared. 

"And  you  were  afraid  of  me  ?"  she  asked.  "  What 
was  so  very  terrible  about  me  ?" 

"  You  were  always  gracious  and  kind,"  he  respond 
ed  ;  "but  I  was  timid.  I  suppose  being  in  love  makes 
some  men  shyer  than  ever." 

"Yes,"  she  admitted,  "I  did  think  you  were  very 
shy." 

"Didn't  you  see  that  was  all  your  fault  ?"  he  in 
sisted.  "It  was  all  because  I  lost  my  head  completely 
when  I  looked  at  you." 

"I  thought  you  didn't  look  at  me  very  often,"  she 
ansAvered,  "and  I  don't  think  now  you  looked  at  me 
half  as  often  as  you  did  at  Johnny." 

"But  I  wasn't  afraid  of  Johnny,"  he  repeated. 

"  You  ought  to  have  been,"  she  said,  slyly,  but  with 
a  little  flash  of  her  eye. 

"Why?"  he  inquired.  "I  don't  see  that.  She 
was  always  very  friendly.  I — I  used  to  tell  her  how 
much  I  loved  you." 


298  A  CONFIDENT  TO-MORKOW 

"Did  you?''  said  Esther,  with  a  laugh.  "I  don't 
think  she  would  enjoy  that.  But  then  a  man  would 
never  know  any  better." 

"  A  man  wouldn't  know  any  better  about  what  ?"  he 
returned. 

"Oh,  never  mind,"  she  answered;  "you  wouldn't 
understand." 

"Try  me,"  he  urged. 

"Did  you  mean  to  make  me  jealous  by  flirting  with 
Johnny  ?"  she  asked,  suddenly, 

"Never!"  he  assured  her.  "Never!  I  hope  you 
cannot  believe  that  I  would  be  guilty  of  such  a  thing. 
It — it  wouldn't  have  been  fair  to  her  either." 

"Oh,  Johnny  can  take  care  of  herself,"  Esther  re 
turned.  "  She  made  me  think  you  were  in  love  with 
her." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  that  she  told  you  that  ?"  he 
asked,  in  astonishment. 

"  Oh,  dear  no,"  she  responded.  "  It  wasn't  neces 
sary  to  do  that.  She  didn't  do  anything  to  make  me 
think  so,  she  just  let  me  think  it,  that's  all.  And  you 
helped  her  so  !" 

"I  helped  her  ?"  he  echoed. 

"  That  song  you  sang  at  the  studio  that  hateful 
night  when  we  had  all  those  absurd  messes,"  she  said; 
"didn't  you  sing  that  right  at  her  ?" 

"I?"  he  returned.  "Why,  I  was  thinking  of 
you  with  every  note  I  sang.  It  seemed  to  me  as 
though  I  were  declaring  my  love  to  you  before  them 
all." 

"  I  didn't  know  that  then.  I  wish  I  had,"  she  re 
plied. 

"  I  wish  you  had,  too,"  said  he.     "  If   you   loved 


A   CONFIDENT  TO-MORROW  299 

me  then,  why,  we  might  have  been  married  months 
ago  I" 

Esther  paid  uo  attention  to  this  remark. 

"I  wish  I  had  known  it  then,"  she  said.  "Of 
course,  I  saw  she  was  trying  to  get  you." 

"To  get  me  ?"  he  asked,  in  astonishment. 

"  She  was  trying  all  she  knew  how/'  Esther  returned. 
"  And  she  knew  I  was  watching  her,  too  !" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked.  "Why  should 
she  want  me  ?" 

"  She  was  in  love  with  you,"  was  Esther's  direct 
answer. 

"With  me  ?"  he  repeated.     "Impossible  I" 

"You  dear  old  stupid,"  said  the  bride.  "Didn't 
you  see  that  ?" 

"  No,"  he  replied.  "  I  never  suspected  it.  Are 
you — are  you  sure  of  it  ?" 

"Of  course  I  am,"  she  responded.  And  she  looked 
up  at  him  with  her  irresistible  smile. 

He  looked  down  at  her  with  a  little  laugh  of  sheer 
physical  delight  in  life.  Then  he  took  her  unresist 
ing  hand  and  tucked  her  arm  under  his  ;  and  they 
slowly  paced  the  broad  promenade  as  the  boat  pushed 
off  and  thrust  itself  out  of  the  slip.  He  felt  as  though 
he  and  she  were  now  beginning  the  voyage  of  life  to 
gether. 

The  sky  was  golden  with  hope,  and  there  was  scarce 
ly  a  breeze  to  ripple  the  sparkling  surface  of  the  broad 
river.  He  remembered  that  he  had  entered  New 
York  by  that  same  water-gate,  not  two  years  before. 
Then  he  was  a  stranger  in  a  strange  laud ;  and  now 
he  was  a  citizen  of  no  mean  city.  Then  he  was  alone 
and  lonely ;  and  now  he  had  his  bride  by  his  side. 


300  A   CONFIDENT  TO-MORROW 

Then  the  mighty  outline  of  New  York  had  towered 
above  him  like  a  frowning  fortress,  to  be  besieged  and 
taken  by  storm  at  last ;  and  now  as  he  looked  back  at 
the  roofs  and  spires  and  lofty  domes  of  the  metropolis 
the  profile  was  forbidding  no  longer,  but  friendly  and 
inviting. 


THE   END 


BY  WILLIAM  DEAN  HOWELLS 


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DATE  DUE 


GAYLORD 


